A Summertime Chase
by Aastel
Summary: Part1 of "Time doesn't help convictions": Omegaverse, casefic. What if everything you believe in crumbles at your feet? The team investigates a serial killing case while traveling and discovering the depth of their feelings. - English version of my French series - Ratings went up! Current city: Paris with bamf!Sherlock, sexy!John, bamf!Lestrade, secret!Mycroft, Anthea.
1. Chapter 1

English isn't my mother tongue. Slight differences with my French version: Une Affaire sans nom. Not quite a translation, well, mostly.

* * *

**— Chapter 1 —**

_"And our lives are so slow  
With Hope more violent than we could know_

_Let the night come the hour sound clear  
The days all pass I'm still here."_

_The Mirabeau Bridge_  
by Guillaume Apollinaire

* * *

**_Day 7_**

John Watson wandered in Tesco desperate to find all the components Sherlock asked for some experiments only him could explain. It had been a rainy day, and John was not in his best mood. How could he be fine after a two week long case involving children? At least they managed to find the culprit who was revealed to be a very desperate sister and saved the cousins' lives. Still, two girls did die, and it was so unfair, especially since Sherlock behaved as usual: _uncaring, dull, bored!_

He picked up the shopping bag, and went down the darkening street thinking about what will be on TV tonight instead. He was also extremely hungry. _Maybe some chinese would do._ The new restaurant at the corner seemed tolerable, and the price were lower than their usual. _Go for chinese then!_ He bought dinner for two and climbed back in the 221b Baker Street flat. He might have a pleasant evening after all.

*xXx*

Sherlock Holmes was reading a new article about the characteristics of each dynamic. It stated Alphas' were powerful and intelligent people whereas Betas were more humanlike, etc., and etc... _Dull, boring, obvious._ People had the insufferable tendency to classify themselves into classes and dynamics. Even nowadays, after the activists and new laws had imposed equality among everyone, they were still discriminated depending on their dynamic. This was encouraged by the obligation to state genders and dynamics in every official documents. For the Betas and Omegas, all those measures were quite welcomed. However, some were still looked upon as outcasts. And A Alphas were the "biggest losers". Being an A Alpha himself, Sherlock could not do much but endure it since trying to hide his dynamic was an impossible task, even for a genius like him.

When he first told his "situation" to John, the Omega was comprehensive but not surprised. In fact, living and working with a high functioning sociopath was much more tedious than dealing with a strong and violent A Alpha. Moreover, being an unusual B Omega himself, John revealed himself to be very fine with that, maybe a little too fine. Meddling with Alphas was not natural behaviours coming from the normal Omegas, but medication and body care products made it possible even for the most seductive Omegas to live as Betas. Excepted that Sherlock was an A Alpha which meant strong will, possessiveness and violent behaviour. They were exceptionally intelligent though.

_We should be leaders instead of all those plain B. Alphas and Betas,_ muttered Sherlock.

But common beliefs had decided otherwise. A Alphas were seen as outcasts, unable to restrain themselves in front of Omegas and too dangerous to deal with when their animal instincts took upon humanity.

Sherlock's thoughts wandered to the shopping list he had given to the blond. _Will he find everything?_ He seriously needed to test human blood in soaped and bowled water to compare the result. Many bodies were found in the Thames and being able to distinguish crimes caused by cannibalism and boring domestics would be a serious asset. Moreover, Sherlock was getting more and more bored after having solved the "Dear Sister" case as John had named it on his blog two days ago.

*xXx*

John entered the flat and was immediately assaulted by the Alpha who could not wait to begin his experiments. Hopefully, he did manage to find the soap and a new kettle. He didn't want to drink tea from a blood stained recipient! He just wanted to suppress his hunger and indulge in some alcohol and crap TV.

"I know your experiments are very important, but can you just, for one day... Behave like a normal being?" John asked him.

"John, you know about my dynamic. Think! If I can't experiment anymore, I will get bored. And you know how A Alphas can become when bored. You are a B Omega. Think about the consequences and your upcoming heat".

So, they were having The Speech again. Strong and violent A Alphas getting bored could become sexually violent indeed. But Sherlock had never made moves on him and he was thankful for this. However, he didn't know for sure how long their tacit agreement would last. Even though he didn't believe at all those speculations on people's dynamic, he still didn't feel comfortable enough to talk about his upcoming heat with his flatmate. They had managed it in the past, for John most usually went to Harry's but one could never know with her. She might throw him out next time while drunk. He should have accepted Mycroft's offer to spy on his brother years before. At least he would have another room to go when in heat. The B Beta would never do harm to him, but their relationship was strained ever since what happened with the Fall and Moriarty. He then thought about Greg Lestrade, his somewhat best friend after Sherlock. The inspector had always been there, especially after the Fall. More often than he could ever recall, Greg had invited him to share a pint, watch some stupid Hollywood films and had managed to get him out of his dark thoughts about Sherlock. Thanks to his friend, John had survived the long months before his flatmate's return. The problem was that he still had no idea about Lestrade's dynamic and the inspector was currently getting a divorce. Which clearly meant no hosting of a John in heat!

He went to the couch and prepared his meal while watching the news, because news were important and who knew what could happen in London? He followed the international headlines unconsciously. Some wars in the Middle East and Cashmere, a new French President, news about the now dead Moriarty again and the financial crisis. No interesting cases for Sherlock. Even Moriarty became dull and boring for the detective. Maybe it was due to his lack of imagination recently. He was a deadman after all. Well, that couldn't do harm to the British population.

National headlines were introduced...

John and Sherlock stopped breathing...

The Game was on...

London was calling for them.


	2. Chapter 2

**— Chapter 2 —**

**_A week ago..._**

_Finally!_

The past weeks had been hellish. Running in and around London during all these crazy days had made him eager for once to sit and write. He just hadn't taken in account the mountain of paperwork. Paperwork can be good for his mental health and legs, but two piles of reports were way too many to handle. He didn't become a police officer to write and sign papers! That was the first delusion he had after his first week spent in the Yard. But he had never regretted it. Being a policeman, then a DS, and now a DI, he truly felt fulfilled, at least in his professional life.

Detective Inspector Lestrade finished signing his last report and started to prepare himself to head home. A TV show and getting drunk tonight had been planned for so long in his mind that he forgot how to act when the time finally had come. Of course, he was tired, of course he felt accomplished. And god knew how much he wanted to feel... nothing.

But something wasn't right.

He rarely followed his instincts, trusting more facts and, well... Sherlock. The A Alpha had been around the Yard for so many years that the detective sometimes forgot how to act when alone. Hopefully, he hadn't been made a DI for nothing, so he decided to trust his instincts for once. And his instincts were telling him to eat and sleep rather than getting drunk in front of that new pop star show. Who knew when he would get a full night long sleep and a proper meal again?

*xXx*

She left the airport and tried to find transportation. Anything would do, since she had no precise destination. _Maybe grabbing something to eat first._Then, a hotel, some sleep and a hot shower or bath would do wonder. _Oh!_ And, she must get some reading materials. She had been far from the civilisation for months, and she honestly needed to read other things than her own thoughts and writing.

Lucky for her, she managed to find a cab and asked to be taken to a fast food near a trusty hotel. The Accor hotel chain would do. The Sofitel was too expensive for her purse, but she could afford both Ibis and Novotel. That would also do good to her premium loyalty program membership.

Pulling out in front of a famous American fast food chain restaurant, she smiled when the smell of greasy food covered her nostrils. It had been so long! She usually hated fattening food, but she really thrived for some industrial stuff. And she had lost all of her fat, so that wouldn't do any harm, would it? _Great... a big hamburger and some coke._ God did she miss coke! She went to the counter and asked for a king size menu with French fries, not-diet coke and cookies. _This is truly marvellous,_ she muttered to herself.

The hotel wasn't bad, it was as predicted. At least she hadn't been surprised which was an uncommonly pleasant feeling. However, London was exceedingly expensive, and she had been used to live without credit cards during the previous months. As predicted, she forgot her pin code. This was getting usual. For every time she went back to civilisation, she would have to go to the bank, fill documents, flash her passport, and sign up for a new credit card to be delivered at her editor's mailbox. This time though, she had come prepared and was proud to pay by cash. So, not a hobo yet! To her delight, there was an internet connection and a bathtub. Heaven! Hallelujah! Magnifique! Splendid! And she exclaimed all the possible words she could find. English, French, Italian, Mandarin, Latin, Ancient Greek... The list was long, but she was so delighted by the sight of a bathtub and a comfy bed and TV and internet connection and... well everything civilised that she almost forgot the purpose of her stay in London.

She had vital things to do, but first, relaxation, bed, getting a proper bank account back, medications, books, clothes, a flat...

*xXx*

Sally Donovan was getting herself ready for work when her mobile rang. She immediately took the call and decided to wake her superior even if she knew his need to rest. But it was her duty, and job to protect civilians, so resting could wait.

"Lestrade speaking", the detective replied in a tired tone. He was undoubtedly sleeping. At least he got some rest, she thought.

"Something bad happened near Victoria Station. Can you come? The team is already heading there", she said, sorry for him but knowing her priorities.

"On my way, now!"

*xXx*

Lestrade quickly got up and thrust into the first things from his closet. At least he had managed to get some sleep. Criminals never slept, he thought while heading toward his unmarked car.

The crime scene was crowded with people, and only a few were authorised the entry. He showed his badge and went to the Detective Sergeant.

"What do we have?" He inquired.

"Two bodies, one is a young male and the other one a female. Both were C Betas, at least their scent revealed it. They are in their twenties and have been badly tortured. We don't know yet if it's postmortem or not and the forensics are looking for possible sexual abuse". Donovan replied her face as white as a sheet.

The B Alpha led him to the bodies for him to check. This was, in fact, horrible. The heads were smashed making the bodies unidentifiable. Guts were spilling out from the corpses, blood flooding over the street and members disentangled. The picture reminded him of some scenes from anything Quentin Tarantino. Lestrade hoped the damages were postmortem, but he didn't know yet. This seemed to be a recall of Jack The Ripper in modern times.

Something wasn't right, he was sure now.

"Sir, both the victims have been raped, indeed," he heard Anderson shouting and realised he had zoned out. He felt a drop of water and reacted immediately, getting in DI mode again.

"Protect the bodies and the crime scene! The rain is pouring down!" He yelled, and everyone started to rush. The bodies were covered, then transported in the ambulance, more meters of tapes were placed, the curious civilians were disbanded. Only the first people on the scene had been retained.

DI Lestrade went to interrogate them.


	3. Chapter 3

**— Chapter 3 —**

**_Back to the present..._**

**_Day 7_**

- Six bodies

- Two females and four males

- All faces smashed

- All bodies destroyed

- Sexually abused

- No evidence left

- Serial killer

- A ripper...

Lestrade starred at his list.

The forensic team had tried days and nights to find anything that could help with the investigation. But the results were insufficient to make significant deductions and his team was getting more and more desperate for clues. Hopefully, the DNA analysis had revealed all of the victims' identity. They had all been found in the prostitution database. As if the killer had purposely chosen people already present in the police database.

Two bodies were found every two days. That made six dead persons already. All were C Betas, from both genders. They had no family, no friends and were prostitutes. But why would the killer... No, the serial killer choose C Betas instead of the usual Omegas or Alphas? Betas were so common and accepted in society. They didn't have to face the problems A Alphas and A Omegas had. The latter was a specie so rare they were considered prizes for wealthy and powerful people. At least A Alphas, though rare, wouldn't be displayed as arm candies. _Perhaps it is due to their personality,_he chuckled, thinking about Sherlock.

Or maybe the killer had purposely wanted to kill C Betas: jealousy?

It was dreadful not to ask for Sherlock's help. The detective would surely point out clues that no one would have seen. But Lestrade reminded himself of John's situation. Since the reunion after the Fall, it was obvious the 22Ib inhabitants were infatuated with each other. Last month, during a gloomy corpse dissection, Molly Hooper had told him about her feelings toward Sherlock, and how she was desperate to get his attention, but it was of no use since she wasn't an Omega contrary to John. She envied him, he reminded himself of her exact words. He felt sorry for her, especially since she was a good girl who could have been quite attractive if she dared to get rid of her baggy clothes. Yet, he envied her courage to love someone she could never have. He had married his soon to be ex-wife after a simple introduction from a friend. They had hit it off almost immediately and had dated for a few months before he got down on his knees. He never truly loved her but had been sincere and faithful. His promotion to DI led them to reconsider their lifestyle, and that was the beginning of the end. They had no time anymore to talk and date. She wanted a husband, not a flatmate. Two months ago, she had met someone. A beta serious enough to leave his wife for her. And she had made her choice.

B Omegas' heat lasted for approximately three days, so there would be no sight of John and Sherlock for at least two to five days. There were bets going on in the Yard about the exact day John would get knotted up by Sherlock. Lestrade secretly hoped the bonding would never occur. _Why?_

And now, he became a victim himself, of the press. Knowing that he wouldn't stay hidden from the journalists forever, he decided it was time to face them and answer their stupid questions. _How to waste your time accordingly,_ he muttered.

He hadn't even stepped a foot outside the Yard yet that a tidal wave of journalists were already yelling enough questions to make him deaf, and flashing enough lights to blind him.

"Everyone, please calm down!" He yelled, tired of all the noise and white lights. "We have six victims so far, from both genders, but all are C Betas. They were all working in the sex industry. The bodies are mutilated, but we managed to identify them. We recommend all C Betas working on the streets to stay home, and keep their entourage up to date. The investigation is going well. I won't answer any questions. Thank you". He finished his speech in a record time, and stormed out of the building, Donovan and Dimmock following him. When they had finally managed to get in the car, Lestrade couldn't keep his temper anymore.

"Fucking journalists and their behaviours!" He shouted hitting the radio's buttons. Tonight, two bodies would be found again. He didn't want that to happen, but he still knew no way to prevent it yet.

*xXx*

That night, two bodies were actually found. A junkie had called them at seven pm and had described the same scene as before. _It's becoming a routine,_ Lestrade sighed.

The new team immediately headed toward the crime scene, but the press preceded them thanks to the junkie's need for spotlight. Lestrade and his team knew that they had to work fast and find the culprit if they wanted to keep their job. Previously, the DCI had advised him, and Dimmock to join forces and work together, with Dimmock seconding Lestrade. Major resources had been released. _Death doesn't wait._

They worked efficiently, and the crime scene was soon evacuated and protected. The forensic team took care of the bodies, and the two DI started to interrogate witnesses. They were rare, but one is better than none at all. The teams worked silently, only speaking when needed.

Lestrade sighed at the sight. Strangely, he was getting used to all those horrific scenes. _Well, the murderers are getting more and more creative,_ he thought, reading his notes again.

This time, the bodies were lying face to face, reproducing the sight of two sleeping infants. Guts, blood, dirt flooded the ground. It was horrible.

Lestrade shivered. For a mere instant, he had absolutely no clue how to react. Should he be frightened? Should he be sorry for the victims? Should he remain calm and unmoved? He tried to pull on a blank face to no avail. He was quivering, and the weather was blazing hot for July in London. _When will this stop?_

_Stop! _

He had panicked.

Greg lifted his eyes from the bits of notes he had taken few days ago and turned back to watch his team. They were still focused on the scene, taking photographs and protecting the bodies.

He saw Sally Donovan approaching him.

"How do you feel?" she asked him quietly, her floral scent covering his nose.

Lestrade stiffened at her and turned away. He was in no mood to talk about his feelings, especially to a B Alpha.

"Anderson!", he heard himself calling the tall man.

"Same pattern as usual. Two C Betas, in their twenties, no identity and their face had been burned. We must get them to the lab immediately for an autopsy. Do you need anything else?" The Beta asked.

"Do your job. I will be waiting for the results in my office," he replied before facing Donovan again.

"Sir..."

"You should repeat these details to Dimmock and his team. I'm going to check on the other corpses again. When you are finished, join me at St Bart's. We cannot afford to lose time anymore. Questions?"

"No Sir, we will be there".

He dismissed his sergeant and watched the scene one last time before getting in his car and driving away.

_Something isn't right about this case. The murderer doesn't seem to be a psychopath. So why would he kill? For pleasure, for the fame, for some stupid convictions?_

Were the victims Omegas or Alphas, he would presuppose the murderer to be a Pro-Beta fanatic.

He was out of his depths again.

*xXx*

Sherlock Holmes got the news in the most ordinary way the world offered. He saw them on TV while doing some experiments with his new kettle and John's last purchases.

John was gaping at the screen, his dinner long forgotten on the table. He then turned to face his very angry and excited flatmate.

"Are you all right?" He asked the detective.

Instead of the usual incomprehensible words' muttering, the A Alpha pulled out his phone and quickly sent some texts. The answer came almost immediately, and Sherlock dialled the corresponding number in a matter of seconds.

"Lestrade, I think we should talk about your performance on TV," he rattled.


	4. Chapter 4

**- Chapter 4 -**

**_Day 7_**

How could Lestrade not have informed him? How did he manage to fool him for a whole week? While experimenting on some dull subjects, one crazy Jack The Ripper had been running mad in the streets of London, unknown to the world's only consulting detective!

"I'm sorry - GL"

"Sorry Sherlock, I thought you wanted some times off, with John's situation, you know... well, sorry". The DI replied when Sherlock had called him, which had to be particularly important since he always preferred to text.

"John and I aren't bonded and we won't, never. So, stop your stupid team making suppositions and betting on our relationship, this isn't serious from the MET. By the way, John's heat isn't due for at least three more weeks". Sherlock spilled on the phone.

*xXx*

One week since she had landed in London. The weather, the food and the life expenses were bad and too expensive. She hadn't received her Venetian tenants' money for two years now, and the realty state agency was still looking for new tenants. With the economic downfall and the expensive rent of her Venetian villa, she had no clue as to when it would be rented again. With her unique reliable source of income gone, she had to find a job; otherwise she would become a true hobo this time.

Five days ago, the bank unwillingly revealed her the state of her funds. Being a heavy traveller and having stayed in Amazonia for the past thirty months, she didn't have the opportunity to check the state of her finance. The crash of Lehman Brothers caused her trust fund to be gone in a fortnight, and the new trust fund wouldn't be enough to cover her life expenses in London. Already broken, the news of the departure of her Venetian tenants had definitely made her desperate. She will never sell the villa though. It was the only reminder left of her previous life with Will, Alex and Kalyn and even if she would have to give up on her bohemian lifestyle and to take up a proper job, to get bonded, — _is it still possible at thirty-eight?_ — She would still keep the villa.

But maybe, yes, perhaps maybe, she still had one last solution. She would find her best friend, the one she had once trusted her own life with, and maybe, he would help her.

*xXx*

Sherlock put down his phone and proceeded the last news. He had been completely put aside by Lestrade and the Met. And he was very, madly angry. He could feel his strong A Alpha instincts growing in him. So he tried to take it easy. Yes, he would manage. He wouldn't want John to be afraid of him, never. The Omega, though brave, was still cautious around Sherlock, especially when he was bored or annoyed. But he had never showed his angry side.

He watched John getting himself ready for the meeting. The Omega was tying his shoes and didn't seem to notice Sherlock's anxiety. His movements were precise and graceful. Like all Omegas, he was seductive in a unique and natural way. He didn't need to dress up or put up some fancy speech to attract and impress Alphas. He just had to be... himself. And Sherlock was his first and favourite prey. The Alpha groaned at the sight. John was bended over the table trying to reach his mobile phone. Sherlock followed the gestures, eyes entirely focused on the Omega. He was attracted to his flatmate.

_God help him!_

He'd never imagined being head over heels for an Omega in his life. When John made his appearance in his crazy life, he was persuaded to just gain a potential long term flatmate, then, a friend. Now, he was in love. He was deeply in love. It wasn't about chemistry or instinctive attraction. No, it was about true love. The kind of love to pull oneself apart. The kind of love you could only read in fairy tales and pray to experience one day. It was the kind of calm, fluffy, cheery love you could feel deep in your throat whenever the Omega would look at you. Sherlock was aware of that.

He did try to focus his mind on other things. Things like Moriarty's network, things like his brother's inefficient diet, things like Lestrade's last row with his wife and Donovan's strange relationship with Anderson. Yet, his mind would always wander to the amazing spirit of his blond and terribly charming flatmate. He was so intelligent, brave, good, gentle, handsome. He was... everything Sherlock had ever wanted to be. He was, in fact, his perfect mate.

And then had come Moriarty. John became the centre of his world. So he left and chased the criminal's network. Two long years were spent travelling and deducing. He managed to finish his task though and finally, came back to a broken Omega whose spirit had been long gone. So he spent the last year trying to rebuild their relationship, their friendship. Now, they were able to trust each other again. Well, John was finally able to trust him again.

"Ready?" John asked, preventing Sherlock to go further into his introspection.

"Let's go."

Sherlock hailed a cab and the two men climbed inside, sitting in front of the other. Sherlock observed his friend whose attention was focused on the passing London shop windows. He didn't know exactly when he had fallen in love. He just knew that one morning, when John had come down from his bedroom, the Omega had looked so handsome in his pyjamas and bed head that Sherlock desperately had to prevent himself from hugging the doctor. The revelation had been hell to deal with at first. Sherlock would hide his flushed cheeks and try to be composed with no good results. John was growing more and more suspicious until, thankfully, Sherlock finally broke down and was diagnosed with some unheard tropical fever. John had sighed and rolled his eyes. He had managed to find all of the Alpha's experimental human cells which had been obviously the source of the fever. Then Sherlock had felt better. He was even more in love.

During the following months then years, Sherlock had learnt to hide his feelings better and better. Now, he could claim to be entirely the assuming and unemotional A Alpha again. But as for his heart, it was now utterly shattered by John.

John, who was currently looking at him before opening his glorious mouth to say:

"I hope this case will keep you entertained for at least one week. We don't need to repair for the tenth time the kitchen sink," he said, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Sherlock glared at him. He was being cute, really, but they had only broken the sink twice and he had forgotten to mention the bathtub.

The cab pulled out in front of the MET, and they promptly walked to the main entrance. Only to be greeted by Lestrade in person.

"You have bad news" Sherlock greeted the inspector.

"Yeah... The medias have gone crazy. We even have rumours stating the murders have to be some terrorists' threats". Lestrade sighed running his hand in his greying hair.

"Well, that can be a plausible reason for all those murders, can't it?" John added, switching his weight between his right and left leg.

"That is exactly what we are going to find. Show us your progress, if you ever had any". Sherlock said while entering the NSY building.

They quickly reached Lestrade's office to find a completely different sight. It was as if the MI5 had invaded the MET building.

"Wow", John exclaimed, taken aback by the whole new space organisation.

"They thought it would be helpful to let us use more... complicated technology," Lestrade explained.

He then led them to a gigantic TV screen where the victims' photographs were played on a constant rhythm.

Both Lestrade and Dimmock's teams were present, sharing the computers and other electronic devices. Donovan was reading some files while talking to a fellow sergeant. Some DCs were running wild in the office, bringing files, videos and evidence. Lestrade showed them his new office. It was, in fact, the whole office.

"We decided in a common voice that it would be more helpful for the investigation if Dimmock and I are to stay in the open space. We cannot afford to lose time opening and closing doors. I lost intimacy and calm to this," described Lestrade pointing at the TV screen. It was surrounded by several small desks on top of which computers, wires, stacks of documents, evidence and other unrecognisable things could be found.

"At least, the DCI recognises the importance of the case more than you do," Sherlock remarked.

"I'm sorry, but we didn't mean to let you in the dark. In fact, I had wanted to call you as soon as the second pair of bodies were discovered, but since everyone seemed to believe you and John are bonded... So, sorry about that."

"John and I aren't bonded if that can reassure you. We've already lost a great deal of time, so let's get to work; otherwise the bodies will quickly hunt your dreams more" Sherlock replied dryly.

"Sherlock, I think Lestrade has apologised enough, okay?" John intervened in a calm voice.

Sherlock and Lestrade turned to watch the Omega standing between them. Then Lestrade left them to talk to Dimmock who came to greet them in a strangely hopeful expression.

"Guys, good to see you". The A Beta seemed to be relieved to see them as if they were sent by God.

"So, what's exactly going on?" Sherlock asked once they were settled down around the main desk.

* * *

Please review! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**— Chapter 5 —**

**_Day 8_**

They had worked on the case for several hours until John had collapsed on the desk, exhausted by all the TV and computers' screens and the files' reading. That was the last straw, so Sherlock and Lestrade decided to postpone the reviewing of the evidence to the next morning.

Lestrade was smoking his last cigarette before he would definitely quit... for the third time this month. He checked his mobile phone for new text messages. Nothing apart from his soon to be ex wife's ranting. She wanted to keep the house for herself. _Damn it!_ Another request from her. The list was getting longer and longer by each day, and she seemed to forget he was the lead investigator of the current crazy murders. He had never expected her to be understanding about his job, but that was unnerving. They were finally getting a divorce, and she could still manage to make him mad. In fact, he was now more and more doubtful about his own sanity. Why had they gotten married in the first place? Where the hell was the charming, kind, patient Beta he married ten years ago?

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted and having watched John Watson sleep didn't help him at all. He finished the cigarette though and headed toward the Met.

Sherlock greeted him with his A Alpha dominant arrogant face and gave him a new piece of evidence.

"This was discovered on the first victim's right ankle," he said.

Lestrade grabbed the photograph and lifted it over his head to ease the observation. It showed a tattoo representing a strange character.

"Do you have any idea what this thing means?" Lestrade asked, changing the angle of the picture.

"No. I tried every possible combination, and while I'm sure this character comes from an existing language, I have no idea of its meaning nor do I know where it came from." Sherlock revealed. Lestrade blinked at the revelation and remained silent.

He didn't want Sherlock to feel bad.

"If even I couldn't find the meaning of the character... Who else would?" The A Alpha stated.

"Sherlock..." Lestrade said.

His plea was met with a ruff from the A Alpha. Sherlock went to another piece of evidence and seemed to have forgotten his apparent failure.

"Don't you think this could have a connection with the upcoming G8 summit?" John asked suddenly. They had completely forgotten the sleeping man, who wasn't sleeping anymore apparently.

Both Sherlock and Gregory startled at the suggestion.

"Well, that can be plausible. What do you think about this Sherlock?" Lestrade finally said.

"A good point, indeed. The pro-Betas movement can be quite violent sometimes judging by the last riots three months ago. However, we shouldn't forget that the government is behind this, and it wouldn't allow terrorists' attacks before such a meeting." Sherlock added.

"Obviously, Mycroft is behind all this, isn't he?" John commented.

"Of course he is. But he will never enter the dynamics' problems game. This is far too much threatening for a man in his position."

"So there are actually some links between the murders and the summit." John suggested.

"It's too early to assert things. We will wait a little more." Sherlock concluded.

He focused on the strange character again, having discarded the other pieces of evidence. Of course, there were some connections with the upcoming summit. But he didn't want John and Lestrade to panic yet. _Let's keep this a secret for the moment._

Sherlock replayed in his mind all the symbols he had seen in his life. Chinese, Indy, Arabic again and again... none of these languages included this strange character. It was a mix between ancient chinese and Thai. _Is it a secret society? _

No! He wasn't living in a fantasy story, bloody hell.

_Wait..._

Maybe this character was just an insignificant tattoo, a misleading piece of evidence. Putting the photograph aside, he sat down in Gregory's new sofa and proceeded to make a deep analysis of the current situation.

The murders had started eight days ago. There were two bodies discovered every two days. All had been unidentifiable and had sported clear signs of struggling and post-mortem mutilation. The faces had been smashed, some organs had been missing and each time, they would find an opening in the stomach. As if the murderer had wanted to find something there. Then, the victims had all been C Betas, young, pretty and prostitutes. They weren't low class though. In fact, the latter was a rich girl judging by the brand she had been wearing and her expensive, but vulgar, purse. Only high class escorts would have the funds to pay for such a luxurious lifestyle. The previous victims, through less "nouveaux riches," were well off enough to not care about their cigarettes' brand and living expenses. Thus, they were all dealing with rich customers. Finally, all the victims had been found in strange places all over the city. Not following a specific pattern, the corpses had been found near crowded area nonetheless. Which could only mean one thing: the murderers had escaped into the crowd and had wished the bodies to be found fast. Sherlock easily deduced they had wanted the bodies to be found and talked about. They craved fame and thrills. So no crimes of passion or revenge, only fame and convictions.

"I need to check the corpses again". He voiced, jumping ahead. "Will you come?" He added, asking John and Gregory.

The two followed him and they soon pulled out in front of St Bart's.

"Well, where is Molly?" Sherlock muttered while striding in the building.

He spotted the young C Beta and joined her in a few steps.

"Hello, Sherlock". Molly greeted, slightly surprised by the sudden appearance. "I guess you are here to see the bodies, aren't you?"

"If you don't mind, Molly." Gregory answered.

Molly led them in the morgue where the bodies were still lying. She showed them her report as they checked on various details. Since Sherlock had already made a first statement, he only cared about his interests.

He was leaning toward an open stomach when Gregory's phone suddenly rang.

"I thought mobile phones are prohibited here." John reacted.

"Sorry, but it's..." Lestrade apologised. He picked it up and immediately changed his posture, going stiff.

"..."

"Okay, let's just calm down." The inspector said.

He lifted his eyes to his two friends and took a deep breath. Sherlock and John raised their eyebrows in a synchronised fashion while getting ready for the news.

"I just received the news about two new corpses, two bodies similar to our victims. The problem is their location."

"Just say it, Lestrade."

"They have been found in the Netherlands, Amsterdam." Gregory finally spitted.

"Oh! That means... The murderers went aboard?" John asked.

"Yeah, I presume so. What else would it be?" Gregory replied, running a hand in his already wild hair.

"Should we go to... Amsterdam?" John asked hesitantly.

"I'm afraid yes. Unless it is possible to transport a body across the channel without destroying all the evidence" Sherlock blurted._ How can they be so stupid?_

"At least they will cooperate... Maybe. In fact, we aren't really in good terms." Lestrade revealed, annoyed by the MET's incapacity to maintain good relationships with other police forces.

"What do you suggest then? Investigating from London and checking the evidence with Skype?" Sherlock ironised.

"Or maybe, we could get there as external consultants. Like you already do, Sherlock." John suggested again.

"I'm sure they will find it annoying. From my own experience, having to cope with arrogant detective consultants can be very tedious. And I'm making understatements here." Lestrade mocked, cocking an eyebrow to his insufferable friend.

"It's because your brain is too small to follow my deductions, Lestrade." Sherlock replied in a sarcastic tone.

John sighed loudly trying to stop the bickering.

"Maybe we should go there as friends of the British Embassy to help them in the Netherlands. They are members of the London Protocol, remember... Thus, they are also concerned by the G8 Summit and the murderers. It would be a true shame if their representatives were to be murdered or attacked in London because the MET wouldn't join forces with the Dutch police for a serial killing case. But it's only a suggestion. As you can see, this case is broadcasted in every civilised countries' medias. I'm sure their government will let us investigate on their territories if we manage to solve the murders before the summit." John said.

"This sounds fine. How do you think about a trip in Amsterdam, Sherlock?"

"Okay then. But no intervention of Mycroft, please." The A Alpha conceded.

"That's for you to do. " Gregory replied.

"So... Are we going to Amsterdam, then?" John wanted to make sure of the fact. He would be the one to pack for Sherlock, damn it!

"Do I need to make myself repeat?" Sherlock said, leaving the room.

They quickly followed the A Alpha in the corridor, only hearing a muffled goodbye from Molly Hooper.

*xXx*

_That is... unbelievable!_

Three hours later, John Watson was getting on the Eurostar for a last minute planned trip to the Netherlands. How did he find himself in this situation? He still couldn't believe the fact. It was the first case that required the whole team to travel in foreign soil. The best they had so far had been their trip down to Baskerville. Sometimes, Sherlock would go far away for some cases, but John had never been offered to join him. This was the first time, ever. And Lestrade was also going.

It was also their first attempt of diplomacy. Twenty minutes after the planning, Mycroft had sent them two complete sets of dress suits and a private car. He had suggested them to take one of his many private jets at disposal but Sherlock refused for he didn't want to be perceived as a corrupted policeman sent by the government. They would be there on their own, acting as external counsellors not directly related to the government. Sent by the MET, not by the boring politics.

They climbed on the train. It wasn't as pleasant as the local ones. The cleaners had obviously forgotten or ignored to clean the tables and the floors. The toilets were quite repulsive and the passengers were rare.

John watched as Gregory Lestrade unfolded the last newspapers in order to show them the urgency of the situation.

"See, the press is getting more and more hungry for our case. If the Amsterdam matter is discovered, I don't think I could manage to investigate anymore. They will surely stalk me into doing everlasting interviews and trying to reveal all the details. We couldn't let them win." The inspector said, pointing at a two pages long article. His photograph was next to the title and the mention "DI G. Lestrade, the lead investigator on the Jack The Ripper 2.0 case."

"Oh my God! They have the same lack of talents in finding titles as you, John." Sherlock cried.

"Should I be offended by your comment? "

"This is ridiculous. Why would it be 2.0? None of the 2.0 technology is exposed here!"

"I think they tried to be more... in the mainstream, " Lestrade suggested.

"Even the Jack the Ripper is wrong!"

"The victims were all prostitutes and severely damaged." John said, defending the press for once. He usually despised them, but Sherlock's hurtful comment on his choices of titles still hung on him.

"They have been mutilated because the murderers are looking for something!"

"For God's sake, Sherlock!"

* * *

I know the story is kind of slow to get into real actions, but I wanted to lay the foundations before attempting at more... interesting matters. The problem is that I'm writing this while following a complete different path. They are going to Amsterdam whereas in the French version, they visited Lille and Bruges at first. I'm compensating with other cities... Just wait and see!

Anyway, enjoy dans don't hesitate to review.


	6. Chapter 6

— Chapter 6 —

**_D_****_ay 8_**

Anthea had received direct orders from her employer. He had asked her to support his brother, the army doctor John Watson and DI Lestrade. The three of them were going to act as an investigation team working for the British Ambassador.

_You will be their translator. I hope the Dutch Police and them will get along. It would be a true shame if there were to be a diplomatic incident. I have high hopes for you. Don't mess it up, _he had told her on the phone before sending her to get her luggage and appropriate clothes.

Of course she understood what _appropriate_ meant. She had in her possession the perfect dress for this kind of event. It would attract all the unwanted attention to her so her _friends_ would have the liberty to conduct a proper investigation. Without having the fright to be caught.

So she went to her wardrobe and opened the sanctuary. There, she had collected through the year a magnificent collection of gowns, cocktail dresses, party dresses... And she found the one. A plunging neckline black gown from the new designer Issa. _This one would do_. Now, she would have to find a more conventional dress. Because not only will they have to attend official parties, but also deal with the daily duties as the representatives of the British forces at the embassy. She would need elegant dresses and not her usual workwear.

She went to the other side and chose several dresses.

_Oh!_

A Christian Dior Couture clear blue dress. It wasn't hers. It had been her best friend's first real couture dress. A silk crepe A-line dress. One of those vintage, forever in fashion dress. Perfect, curvy, romantic and so much not like her. But she would never touch it, even less wear it. Too many old memories flew through her mind. Anthea hanged it back and processed to find the outfit she would wear without being presumptuous and the very least practical. No one knew what could happen during those cases. Better be cautious.

Red, blue, purple, black, grey or white? She had too many choices. Mycroft had once described her wardrobe as being more stuffed than the Queen's one. That had been quite a comment.

Her eyes trailed to a crimson red Oscar de la Renta cocktail dress. Knee length, elegant but sexy and romantic with the slight ruffle fabric on the collar. It was one of her latest acquisition and she had never had the opportunity to wear it yet.

Then, the shoes. Nicolas Kirkwood black and gold high heel sandals would be perfect. A pair of Bloch ballerina for the run and pumps from Manolo Blahnik. It was a bit more than necessary but she loved to indulge in this expensive hobby. So, shoes they were.

For the daily wear, she decided to pack her usual business attire. Vivienne Westwood and Alexander McQueen suits, Burberry trench coat, etc. She knew her wardrobe cost probably one's entire year salary but as her employer had said again: _Clothes are as persuasive as words, if not even more._

She sighed at her luggages, one practical trolley suitcase and headed toward the front door. She was required to meet the team in Amsterdam. She needed to arrive before them.

*xXx*

"Are you really sure about this route?" John asked studying the Parisian map.

"Of course I am." Sherlock replied. He rolled his eyes for the third time since their arrival at Gare Paris Nord.

"It's not complicated. We have to catch the next train to Amsterdam." Lestrade added.

"Really, John. You can be very stupid sometimes. We have to take the next train from _this_ station. We don't even have to change station. From London to Paris Nord, then from Paris Nord to Amsterdam. Is it too much for you to handle?" The A Alpha sighed.

"And now, the next train..."

"There is one every two hours, very practical." Sherlock interrupted.

"Oh, so it's that simple!" John finally understood.

"Yes."

"Sherlock! I don't speak a word of French and their English is so... For God's sake, it's not my fault if I thought we had to go to another station!" John had had enough.

Since their departure, Sherlock had been unbearable. He went several times to the restroom, mocked the other passengers, asked for the windows to be opened while they were under the sea in the highly secured tunnel and even tried to pull at the alarm string so they could see how people would act when in panic. Lestrade had sighed again and again and had stopped trying to change the A Alpha's behaviour after the tenth time. He had then changed his seat for one far from the flatmates and spent the journey catching on some sleep instead. Which meant John had supported Sherlock the rest of the journey alone.

"I understand their accent is quite un-understandable but it is clearly indicated on the map. Look, here!" Sherlock shouted again.

John rolled his eyes and went to get the Thalys tickets. They would have to wait for two more hours, again. He was having some regrets now. If they had accepted Mycroft's proposition, they would already be in Amsterdam, enjoying the Dutch report on the case. Now, they were struggling to get tickets with a fuming Sherlock and a glued-to-his-phone Greg. The latter had being on the phone almost all the time with either his soon-to-be-ex-wife or the Dutch police.

"The two victims were two prostitutes indeed" Greg announced after the call.

"Some very good news. Especially when referring to prostitutes in the City of Sins." Sherlock said sarcastically.

"At least I'm doing something productive whereas you are ... whatever it is." Lestrade retorted.

The atmosphere was getting more and more tense.

*xXx*

The warm summer weather was doing wonder to the Londoners. Even the Prime Minister was happy to see him this morning for their weekly report!

Mycroft Holmes smiled at himself. Everything was going so smoothly. The last law had passed without too much troubles, the Americans had been easy to fool and even the French Prime Minister hadn't been his usual lazy git. Everything had been perfect. _Too perfect_.

Jack The Ripper 2.0. _What a stupid name!_

It wasn't his job though. Let Sherlock, John and this gorgeous DI deal with the case. He had too much to handle currently. But if the upcoming G8 meeting were to be jeopardised, he would intervene.

Mycroft Holmes sighed. He had sent Anthea in Amsterdam to make sure everything would go to his liking. A diplomatic crisis on top of a serial killing case would put the country in a very complicated position: that and the G8 summit. The Netherlands had always been supportive of the London Protocol. They were their oldest and best allies.

The politician stepped in the living room. He carefully discarded his suit and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He went directly to his wardrobe. His men had brought him his last purchase: a summer fitted complete suit. Saville Row's top quality tailoring, perfect cut... He discovered the package hanging in his wardrobe. He pulled out the suit from its case.

Dark blue vest, waistcoats, pressed pants and two white shirts. He trailed his fingers on the delicate fabric. The mix of silk and cotton melted under the touch. Mycroft hummed in appreciation. It was perfect. The shirts had those crazy collars. Slightly rounded, they were the sole fashionable details he authorised himself. The collars and the cufflinks which had been handcrafted by a gifted sculptor in Spain. They were the shape of umbrellas, incrusted with sapphire jewels. He had collected over the years a good collection of cufflinks, but the umbrellas' had always been his favourite.

The man drifted to the jewellery case. Not that he would ever wear jewellery but is was perfect for his watches. He usually wore a pocket watch but he might switch to a wrist watch. As much as he loved watches, he had never been a connoisseur. His friend had been one, a truly passionate man.

_Ah, there it is._

The politician closed his fingers gently on a dark blue watch. The dark blue crocodile leather watchband was patinated by years of use. Mycroft delicately lifted the item and examined the watch case. Automatic movement, the Girard-Perregaux model was one of the most expensive and practical watches that existed on the luxury watches market. One of the oldest manufactures, one of the most sold model, perfect movement, perfect watchband, customised background. Everything had been made with so much fondness and precision that it was almost inconceivable to wear it. With regrets, Mycroft put the watch back. He would never wear it. It was the legacy of his beloved friend. It retained too many painful memories. Memories he promised himself to bury deep, deep, deep in the core of his heart. Because, _yes, _he had a heart. A heart entirely broken by the lost memories of a precious past.

Suddenly, his mobile phone rang.

"Holmes..."

...

"ETA ten minutes." He ordered.

Mycroft Holmes dashed past the wardrobe and left his bedroom. He quickly put on his discarded suit again and tied his pristine shoes in a haste. He called for his chauffeur and headed toward Downing Street.

Never would he remember passing the corridor and the small sideboard. The furniture had long been considered as a part of the house. On this sideboard were sat two photographs.

The first one represented a young pouting Sherlock Holmes, a chubby Mycroft and their parents. His mother was wearing a gorgeous emerald summer dress, her hands on the siblings' shoulders. His father was laughing, one arm holding his mate and wife's waist. It was the perfect portrait of the perfect family. Two months later, his father died in an accident. His mother never recovered. The bond severing and the loss had taken away her smile and her beautiful dresses. Sherlock had never been the same either and Mycroft had begun his diet: the once perfect family was once and for all destroyed.

In the background, held another photograph, invisible behind the first one due to the dirt and a broken frame. Closely, one could distinguish three silhouettes and the Notre-Dame de Paris Cathedral. More closely, one could see a young woman and two men. The young woman in the middle sported long black hair, laughing at the camera. She was wearing a white T-shirt, a pair of dark denim jeans, and New Balance sneakers. On her left, one arm curled around her waist was standing a young man. Brown hair, smart outfit, he was apparently talking to the young woman. On her right stood a tall, slim, dark brown haired young man. Mycroft Holmes was watching his two friends, smiling broadly, so fond of them.

At the bottom could be read:

_"Paris, 199X._

_Kalyn as the photographer. The three other idiots as the models. _

_With love"_


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

**_Day 9_**

"She will spy on us for my dear brother." Sherlock scowled.

"Sherlock!" John shouted.

Detective Inspector Lestrade smiled at the assistant and asked her about the government's opinion on the case.

"Well, they have high expectations for you. I hope everything will go smoothly." Anthea replied, as the professional assistant she was.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and left the room for a walk. The B Alpha had welcomed them last night at the Amsterdam train station. She had quickly become acquainted with the inspector and even John seemed to like her. In fact, he had talked to her for at least three hours last night. Of course, Sherlock had intervened by lighting fire in the meeting room.

And John had stopped talking to shout at Sherlock. It was better than watching the B Omega flirting with the B Alpha.

His mind was over flooded by thoughts about John, John, his _John..._ He would usually focus on the current case but, sometimes, some memories about John would pop up in his head. John in front of the telly, John eating a slice of chocolate cake, John looking for his heat suppressants in the living room, John congratulating him on a case, John shouting at the journalists, John provoking Mycroft, John defending him in front of the Yard, John next to him, John's scent. Chocolate and chocolate cake and hot chocolate, spicy, musky, vanilla scent. God did the man smelt good.

And now, John was wearing a simple t-shirt under the rare blazing heat of Amsterdam, while enjoying breakfast with Lestrade and _bloody_ Anthea. The B Alpha was clearly interested in his doctor friend. In fact, she was completely attracted by the wonderful scent of a soon-to-be in heat B Omega. Even Lestrade had been more cautious about his behaviour and outfits in front of John. Both of them were entirely focused on the man. John, as always, was oblivious to the signs.

Sherlock Holmes sighed and turned into another street. Amsterdam was built on a bunch of little islands, interconnected by numerous bridges. In the city of bicycles, the A Alpha felt relived: cute canals, bicycles in every possible colours, a young and cosmopolite population, artists... The City was refreshing and so different from the ever stressed London. As a matter of facts, Amsterdam offered the perfect balance between life and carriers. More and more talented people from the medias and art scenes came to the Dutch capital where being different and free weren't perceived as some weaknesses. It was a reflection of the wild and young Sherlock: the one that had moved to London years ago looking for excitement.

Sherlock turned into another passage, hidden behind a bunch of parked bicycles. He crossed another small bridge, turned right, left, stopped in front of the house of Anne Frank. He observed the long queue then looked away.

_The case._

Tonight, they were attending a reception organised by the British embassy before the upcoming summit. Anthea would represent the British Government whilst Lestrade would stand for the well-known New Scotland Yard. Sherlock and John would be introduced as Lestrade's colleagues, accompanying him in his trip. They would also work with the Dutch police - the ever efficient North European police -, on the double murders. They had sent them a copy of all their current analysis from forensics to eventual witnesses' statements. Anthea had quickly translated them and made four full copies, one for each of them.

Sherlock turned into another street, packed with locals and cafés. He chose to rest at a typical European café, pulled out the white wooden chair and ordered a black coffee.

He checked his mobile phone and scrolled down the messages until he found what he was looking for. Anthea had sent them all the reports in both Dutch and English by email, pdf version.

Sherlock didn't bother and chose the Dutch version. He spoke fluently French, Spanish, and German and was able to read in Dutch, Italian, and Portuguese. Even if the list was impressive, he still hold some regrets since he had privileged sciences over languages in his youth. His brother, on the contrary, was a wonder. Mycroft, indeed, spoke fluently French, Spanish, German, Russian, Mandarin, Italian, Japanese and Arabic at least. Quite impressive in fact. And really useful for a diplomate.

Sherlock chased the thoughts away, focusing on the case instead. The Dutch report stated that the two victims had been discovered in the afternoon near the Museumplein, a peaceful and sometimes crowded with tourists place. It was a peculiar location. In fact, most London's victims had been found in dark and dreary places where hygiene and property weren't an issue. The Museumplein, however, was located in one of the most prestigious areas of the city. Near the park could be found the "Fifth Avenue" of Amsterdam: Pieter Cornelisz Hooftstraat. Rarely crowded, it was only visited by rich tourists and locals who wanted to buy high end goods. Rich quarters surrounded this street where all scandals were highly disapproved of.

_A complete different set of location, then._

Another detail prevailed upon the others: the victims' social background. Even though the Dutch one were prostitutes, they wore luxurious garments and their corpse showed no traces of violences, drugs, illness at all. In fact, they were completely from a different circle then the English one: high class escorts indeed, but of another level. Sherlock suspected them to be exclusive escorts: prostitutes, but for the really riches and powerful.

It was all the more strange since Amsterdam was well-known for its red light district and coffee-shops where soft drugs could be found legally and at every corner. But the murderers had chosen a completely different setting instead.

Was it to attract the attention?

_Most unlikely, _Sherlock thought.

He drank another mouthful of his coffee and observed the pedestrians.

They were young, highly educated as most people in Amsterdam were, carefree and completely open to subcultures. The city represented the epitome of freedom and arts.

But then, the victims found had been in contact with very powerful and rich person. Who, as usual, would never enjoy freedom, preferring to rot in their comforting social group.

Sherlock suddenly stood up and clapped his hand in excitement.

_That was brilliant!_

He had completely forgotten the economy. Amsterdam was the capital of the Netherlands. The Netherlands were one of the most powerful countries in international trades. Thus, lots of millionaires and entrepreneurs.

Finally, the Netherlands was near one of the most interesting city in Europe: Antwerpen - Antwerp for the English -. _The city of Diamonds_. The Belgian city was the meeting point of all the Occidental diamonds and fine jewelries traders. And Amsterdam held one of the most famous diamonds' museum and history.

The victims had been related to the Diamonds' trades.

Tonight, they will meet all these people, invited by the British Embassy. There would be escorts and traders.

Maybe one of them would be the killer.

Sherlock ran back to the hotel, after texting the details to Lestrade.

Tonight, they would have to be on their best behaviour.

*xXx*

"Well, what do you think?" Sherlock asked John after stretching his jacket.

John Watson licked his lips. _God, he is truly gorgeous!_

"It suits you well. You will make quite an entrance tonight!" the B Omega said instead.

John turned around and went to fetch his own jacket. It was jet black, the lapels in silk. The cut was perfect, the pressed trousers fitted him like a wonder... The whole suit made him more handsome than ever.

"And what do you think about me?" John asked in return, cocking up an eyebrow.

"You're an Omega, obviously you will attract everyone's attention. Male Omegas are rare and the blue bow tie reveals your blue eyes. Mycroft's assistant is good with clothes. I hope she got Lestrade a tuxedo. The man never wear clothes accordingly, choosing comfort over proper attire", Sherlock said.

The A Alpha headed to the doors and opened it. John followed his friend in the hotel hall where the sight of a handsome Gregory Lestrade welcomed them.

"Hey, look at you! We are different men, aren't we?" Lesrade cried in joy at the sight of his two friends.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and opened his mouth. John was quicker though.

"You look good, Greg", he said, stating the obvious and stopping Sherlock speaking whatever he planned to.

Gregory turned around to greet Anthea, managing to hide his blush at John's compliment.

The B Alpha assistant was... Sexy-ness and gorgeous-ness mixed in reality. She was wearing a black gown revealing the magnificent shape of her bosom and perfect tanned skin.

Her brown hair was pulled in a bun à la Audrey Hepburn. A diamond necklace went down her neckline.

She was indeed gorgeous.

All eyes were focused on the four of them.

Perfect suits for the men, a sexy B Alpha. And John who was oblivious of the stares.

He was a B Omega, a male Omega, soon to be in heat, wrapped into the sexiest suit ever.

He never saw the admiration in both Sherlock and Lestrade's eyes. He never saw the smile on Anthea's face while she sent a text message on her BlackBerry.

* * *

I've posted this chapter in a haste . It is quite short but the next one will be longer, I promise.

I'm rewriting the plot for the English version. If you read the French one, they would be in France, Lille then Bruges currently. I preferred to start with Amsterdam with a more glamourous set in this version. I don't know why, but I just wanted to include Anthea a little more here. She had a very important role in the story and is one of the main characters in my second part (the French new ongoing part). I hope you won't be too much displeased by my choice of differentiation.

Don't hesitate to review and ask me any questions you have on the story, plot differences (FR versus En), even grammar mistakes correction are welcomed. :)

NB: I've made some changes in the organisation of Amsterdam and The Netherlands. The British Embassy isn't located in Amsterdam, but in The Hague, another Dutch city in the real world. But since Amsterdam is quite romantic... I put everything there.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

**_Day 9 and 10, Night_**

The old and imposing building was located in the old city of Amsterdam. At the edge of a canal, it overlooked a well lit and crowded street. Important guests flooded in the main entrance, highlighted by a large red carpet. All the cliches of this kind of evening were reunited: golden lights, clear and shiny crystals, red carpets and sofas, tall and handsome waiters. It was one of those film-like scenes where the main protagonist would fall in love with the mysterious man, after a crazy night spent dancing.

As the invitees rushed into the ballroom, a car stopped in front of the carpet covered stairs. Sherlock and his friends climbed out of the black luxurious car, courtesy from Mycroft Holmes. A warm and windy evening welcomed them and Sherlock hummed in pleasure. The cramped and stuffy car environment had caused their mood to sway over the edge. Hopefully, no one got hurt. Three Alphas sharing the same tight space couldn't have made a worst party. It was all thanks to John's calm presence if they were still safe and sound. The B Omega had calmed their nerves by making small talk and showing his seductive side. The behaviour immediately charmed Sherlock, Lestrade and Anthea, ignoring their predatory nature in favour of drawing the Omega's attention on them.

And John played along, knowing the crucial importance of his role.

Sherlock watched the man stretching himself. John turned to his flatmate and flashed a delicious grin.

The detective felt butterflies in his belly: definitely a strange sensation. He grinned in return and John laughed. The two men climbed the stairs getting into a splendid hall.

"Whoa!" John exclaimed, dazzled by all the lights and beautiful people.

Sherlock looked at his favourite and oh so chocolate flavoured friend with an undying smile. It was definitely the first time the doctor attended such a conventional soiree. The army doctor was speechless. The detective laughed.

"Well, it is a social gathering. Of course it would be perfect." He observed, not at all disturbed by his surroundings.

A hostess guided them towards the reception where they showed their invitation before being led again in the ballroom. Lestrade and Anthea followed them not far from each other.

The game was on.

*xXx*

"Are you sure this thing is edible?" Greg asked while observing the strange canapé in his palm.

"This is a piece of toast topped with some caviar and onion cream. Don't play dumb. You wouldn't want to pass for an outcast. Just eat it or trow it away." Sherlock replied dryly while fidgeting with his phone. He was texting John, standing in the opposite corner. The doctor was getting along with a distinguished old lady, conversing over a glass of champagne and laughing politely.

Sherlock then focused on Anthea who was having a deep conversation with a tall man, wearing a dark blue tuxedo. He was obviously charmed by the young woman. Her eyes darted to Sherlock's direction and their eyes met.

The A Alpha understood immediately the signal. He walked to the PA and put on his best smile.

"Sherlock, let me introduce you to Ambassador Felipe McOwen. And this is Sherlock Holmes, my employer's young brother and consulting detective. He occasionally helps New Scotland Yard." Anthea introduced the two men and took a step aside. _Forever the perfect assistant._

Sherlock flashed a dazzling smile. He was used to this sort of events where appearances were far more important and valuable than real sincerity.

"A perfect reception in one of the most beautiful European city." He said, starting with some conventional subjects. This man would be easy to chat up.

"A wonderful evening indeed, we have tonight. I heard you are Mycroft Holmes' brother, aren't you? How is the man? We've met several times and he is quite the gentleman." Felipe said, pausing to drink some champagne.

"As busy as always."

"Since you are working with Scotland Yard, what do you think about the Jack the Ripper 2.0 case?"

Sherlock managed to hide his disapproval of the name and pulled a serious face instead. Anthea shifted slightly at the question.

"Maybe a terrorist act in attempt to attract the pro-betas' attention on their ideals. We have several other ideas about the case but not enough to build a real theory."

"Two victims have been found in this city yesterday. What are your opinions on the matter?"

"The diamonds industry is doing well, isn't it?" Sherlock replied instead.

"Well, this industry is sent by God. I do hope it isn't related to the murders, since the prostitutes were escorts. I mean, they shouldn't have been involved in these." Felippe sighed.

Sherlock smiled at the revelation. Anthea observed him and quickly sent a text. They had a first statement, and the night was still young.

*xXx*

"Come here Greg" John said.

"What do you get?" The inspector answered, sipping on some champagne.

He eyed the pretty Omega next to him who was focused on Sherlock Holmes. Hands in his pocket, he was gorgeous in his jet black tuxedo. His hair had been styled thoughtfully, sticking up wildly but so fashionably in all directions.

"Anthea sent me his first deduction. The man he is talking to, is the British Ambassador in person, Felipe McOwen. He seems to know a lot about the case. And what do you have?" The doctor replied, smiling at the inspector who blushed again.

_God, he does smell wonderful!_

Lestrade ran a hand in his also but-not-on-purpose wild hair, ruffling them even more.

"The woman in the horrible purple dress is quite talkative. I bumped into her earlier and she started talking to me. I know her name, her life, her sex life, her bonded mate's sex life and their interests in young betas, especially young female C Betas. In fact, she and her mate met quite an impressive number of escorts in Amsterdam."

"Did you ask her about the case?" John inquired, elbowing his friend. He smiled at him, giggling at Lestrade's pouting face.

"No. She talked about the case in her undying speech. She said it was a shame, the victims were so young and pretty. She knew one of them. The girl was a nice Beta, always polite and good with her hands. Well... she gave me too many unwanted details but at least we have some firsthand testimonials. The girl was still a student, studying Economy at the University of Amsterdam. She has no connection nor money. The job's purpose has been for her to meet her basic living expenses and rent. That lady even told me about the girl's ex-boyfriends..."

John laughed even more at his rant. Lestrade frowned then added:

"It wasn't my doing. She didn't even give me the opportunity to introduce myself! She just talked, and talked and talked until her mate came to fetch her. God, she's crazy!" Gregory almost shouted.

John jumped at the shout and gaped at him, stopping his laugh. The inspector had always been so calm lately. As if he suddenly woke up from a long daydream.

Gregory still felt uncomfortable after the discussion with the lady. _She talked about her mate's habits in fisting! Fisting! And she had been so proud about her need to orgasm at least twice a day. I don't understand how people can be so open about their intimacy. Poor victim. She didn't deserve her fate..._

The Alpha sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was extenuated, having barely slept the last two weeks. The divorce was still getting in his nerves and his soon-to-be ex-wife had just texted him about the house, again. In fact, she _texted him_ while in London and him in the Netherlands, overlooking the international texts' fees. She even tried to call him but he ignored her in favour of a new glass of champagne when he bumped into that talkative crazy lady.

Then, he had learnt a whole new aspect of sex and oestrus cycles. That lady, an Omega, was quite expansive and adventurous, and her mate was a true bastard. Rich and stupid, which was very cliche.

*xXx*

_"_Now we have two pieces of important information. Felipe slipped in his speech. He clearly implied the case to be involved with the diamond industry. Then, the lady, who seems to enjoy high class escorts a lot. Intelligent and well educated high end escorts aren't made in one day. There may be an underground organisation. We should dig a little more." Sherlock revealed to his two friends after their gathering in a discreet corner far from the crowd.

The A Alpha was excited by their progress tonight. Two revelations in two hours could be considered as a good score. He gulped an olive before drinking some champagne. The Taittinger had been a good choice. More exclusive than the already famous Moët & Chandon or Dom Perignon, it was chosen for its good taste and discreet flavour.

Sherlock scanned the room again looking for Anthea.

_There she was._

The B Alpha was standing close to a couple, ostensibly a bonded one. They were engaged in a deep conversation. It wasn't the usual polite talk were people would make small talk and faking laughs. They were having a serious discussion, involving politics and secret projects. In fact, Anthea hadn't been helping on the case. She was serving Mycroft's diplomatic purposes.

The assistant lifted her glass and they toasted. She bent down to whisper some words in the lady's ear. Her mate left them space. He didn't want to know what the women were talking about. _The man is the Omega._

Anthea straightened her back a little while later and winked at the lady, definitely an Alpha, who replied by a mischievous smile.

"I guess we have some interesting news here" Lestrade observed, moving to meet the detective's eyes.

They glanced toward the assistant who managed to leave, finally, the couple. She caught a waiter and handed him her glass before heading outside. They noticed her signal and followed her.

*xXx*

"The couple was one of the most renowned diamonds traders in the world. They invited us to visit their manufacture in the city centre of Antwerp next day." Anthea revealed in the garden.

"This offer cannot be refused." John intervened.

"In fact, they might know a little more about the link between sex industry and diamonds. We have a lady here who seems to enjoy greatly Amsterdam's exclusive escorts. Ask Lestrade for more details. He's still in shock!" Sherlock joked.

"You do seem to know them quite well" Greg added, passing by Sherlock's snide comments.

"We met years ago. I was still working as a translator then. They used to be my clients in Spain for business. They weren't as successful as today though. They climbed the social ladder quite well. I'm really surprised. They will help us eventually. I do hope so." Anthea admitted, gazing up the starry sky.

_She is lying. Their relation is far more complicated then a business one,_ Sherlock deduced.

"We must remain cautious though. You never know who people really are." John added.

"I've already asked for a full check up of the five interesting persons we met tonight. We should receive them in a few hours", Anthea said, ever the reliable assistant.

"So, let's head home and pack!" Lestrade commented, grinning at the prospect of a new trip.

"The night's still young. I suggest we get some fun while we can, don't you think so?" John suggested instead.

*xXx*

They stepped inside the ballroom again. The late evening had driven away some of the guests back to home.

John finally got to have some time for himself tonight. He found the buffet and tasted some canapés coupled with champagne and pastries. The music was playing slowly, the late hour having made the musician change the rhythm. Chamber music had replaced the loud jazz swinging. It created a comforting and intimate atmosphere in the now dim lighted ballroom.

The Omega moved to the rhythm of the melody before a hand caught his arm. He lifted his gaze and met Sherlock's face. The A Alpha smiled.

"Would you care for a dance?" Sherlock murmured, turning the Omega until they were standing face to face.

John felt his heart taking a leap and gulped in response. He smiled shyly and managed a deep breath.

"Why not?" He whispered, entranced by the clear blue eyes of his best friend.

Sherlock took his hand and led him to a remote corner. He then invited the Omega to join his pace. They moved with the music, the Alpha leading the dance and John happily following.

The world, the case, the insufferable brother... All were forgotten for Sherlock's presence and scent. A mixture of the humid woods, coffee, chemicals and sweet cinnamon.

John hummed in silence and closed his eyes.

*xXx*

Gregory Lestrade watched his friends dancing, hidden in a corner far from the animation. Two men of opposite dynamics dancing was considered normal. But for the inspector, it was unique.

His heart leapt at the sight. He felt sad despite being happy for John.

He had no idea why.


	9. Chapter 9

**— Chapter 9 —**

**_Day 10_**

Anthea stroked carelessly the steering wheel of the BMW 6 Series Grand Coupé they have rented in the morning. She truly appreciated the roaring engine.

Silently sliding on the motorway, the car was the incarnation of discretion and power. A provoking design, soundproofed rich interior, strong and silent engine, it was the utter perfection. BMW was known as a flashy brand, but for the connoisseur, it undoubtedly conveyed another reputation. In fact, for most people living in the north of Europe: Belgium, Germany, the Netherlands and so on, it represented the epitome of power and practicality.

Anthea observed the other cars down the motorway. At the border with Belgium, they were commonly luxurious. BMWs, Audis, Mercedes... The inhabitants in this part of Europe enjoyed powerful cars not only for their design, but also because it was a local tradition. _Have a fine car and drive long distances._

All the consumers' choices followed the same pattern. The Dutch would always prefer quality over quantity. Italian and French brands were a favourite, not because of their fame but mostly due to their sumptuous fabrics. Colourful and bright interiors would match a strict design. It was all about minimalism, strong colours, and durability.

Anthea focused her attention on the road. Driving on the left, she looked at the landscape unfolding in front of her eyes. The unending green and beige fields were very plain, too plain. Sometimes, a huge and square building would appear, most of them attributed to import-export companies. Those were the main industries in Belgium and in the Netherlands: trading. Food, wood, chemicals, cars, services, and, of course, diamonds, all were sold and bought in the two little countries. Rich were the businessmen and most strangely, very discreet. They would spend holidays in Knokke, buy houses near Bruges and Antwerp, shopping in Kortrijk and sometimes Lille for the French speakers. Rarely they would meet in St-Tropez or in other trendy cities. Discretion and the work were what truly mattered.

Anthea looked in the mirror and smiled at her passengers. The three men were sleeping, exhausted by the late evening spent chatting up strangers and dancing. DI Lestrade was slouched against the door at her right. On the back seats, Sherlock Holmes and his best friend John Watson were also sleeping. It was an endearing sight as the B Omega rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Anthea smiled even more when Sherlock's head fell on John's. Cuteness and love.

She knew about their secret feelings. It was so obvious. Even Gregory Lestrade had noticed the two flatmates' mutual attraction. Pheromones and heat were only a detail, for love was what mattered. Having watched them dancing together last night had been glorious. The two beings only looked at each other, forgetting everything. When will they reveal their feelings?

The PA sighted and looked at the navigation assistant: one more hour.

*xXx*

Lestrade stirred at himself and woke up to the clattering sound of rain pouring down. Beside him, Anthea was still focused on the road, one hand on the steering wheel while the other rested on the gearshift. _She's a talented driver_, he thought, getting used to the light engine sound. He pulled himself up, changing his current position for a more comfortable one.

Anthea turned her head and greeted him with a smile. The woman wasn't as robot-like as they first had presumed. Actually, she could certainly smile, talk and even laugh. Last night, Greg had seen her joking, flirting, laughing and even dancing. The latter stroke him mute. The assistant hardly spoke when the inspector went to his monthly meeting with Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's almighty Big Brother.

He smiled in return and turned over to watch his two friends in the back seat. They were still sleeping and needed it. Especially Sherlock who had been restless the past days turning gradually into a vampire. _The ones from that popular novel. What's the name again ? Dawn, the night... Oh! Twilight, that's it! _Gregory thought.

Gregory shifted again and rubbed his eyes.

"How far?" He asked.

"Twenty minutes. We shall park in the city centre, P+R or our hosts' private garage. We will see. Did you sleep well?" The B Alpha replied still focused on the road.

"Already? I thought it would take longer to get there." He commented casually.

"The Netherlands and Belgium are small countries. It's easy to change country."

They spent the remaining twenty minutes in silence, listening to the rain and other engines' sound.

Exactly twenty-seven minutes later, their entered the famous city of Antwerp. Heading toward the city centre, they encountered several monuments before parking in front of a stone building. The construction dated from 19th century and was well kept.

A tall and very distinguished lady welcomed them at the main entrance. Wearing a burgundy summer dress, obvious B Alpha scent, she ushered them inside the immense dark green wooden door. They parked in a private courtyard. Anthea turned off the engine.

"Sherlock, John, we've arrived!" Lestrade shouted.

The two passengers immediately woke up, startled by the sudden calmness and Greg's strong shouting.

John groaned and rubbed his shoulder. Sherlock replicated the same movements much to Anthea and Greg's amusement. The DI laughed at the sight and climbed down the car, only to be met by the graceful lady. Anthea climbed out not long after him, having straightened her outfit and put on some lipstick.

"Hello dears!" The lady exclaimed in a strong Dutch accent. She opened the other doors and was welcomed by the sight of two groaning Englishmen, both still sleepy.

John et Sherlock came out still rubbing their eyes.

The lady led them toward a modern living room, typical from the Dutch. Refined decoration, embellished with touches of bright red and anthracite.

The four guests were invited to make themselves at home. Anthea chose the red Cinna Ottoman armchair while Lestrade, John and Sherlock sat in a contrasting white Roche Bobois giant sofa. The lady sat among them, in a strange chair covered by old newspapers, painted in anthracite.

"Well, this is a private commission created by a young Dutch designer in Antwerp." She described, guessing their thoughts.

"We are extremely pleased by your invitation." John started, always the polite one.

"Dears, I must be glad to welcome you in this dreadful weather. I must present myself though. I'm Heleen Barnaart but most people call me by my middle name Eva. Sven, my husband, will arrive soon. The poor man is always at work, but you must understand, business is business!" Eva said cheerfully, turning her "r" in a strange way, and lengthening the words considerably.

"I'm John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes and Gregory Lestrade. I think you already now about Anthea" John replied.

"Laura Smith actually" Anthea admitted.

By the looks on her "friends" face, it was quite the revelation.

*xXx*

It wasn't until seven pm that Sven Barnaart turned in the doorway. The tall man, an omega, greeted them with a cheerful "Hello" before getting out of his rain coat.

"Sven Barnaart, and you must be Laura's friends. She's told us a lot about the three of you yesterday. I recall you are working at Scotland Yard, aren't you? This is quite incredible. I'm a huge fan of mystery books and TV series. My wife finds me a little childish, but you know, she's the boss here..." Sven said revealing the whitest teeth they had ever seen.

John, Greg and Sherlock smiled at the man before Eva guided them toward the dining room.

The dinner was delicious, very pleasant in fact.

"I bought the cake in Bruxelles, at a small but so very pretty cake shop. I hope black chocolate will suit your taste. Do English people prefer Belgian chocolate or Swiss one? I do like both of them. Did you visit Bruxelles? It's a wonderful city! The old city is incredibly beautiful, and the Grand Place... So grey and it has a really complicated architecture!" Sven said cutting the cake. His behaviour revealed his omega status: the perfect host.

"We would love to go there. I heard they have a famous sculpture, the little peeing boy." John answered, taking his slice of chocolate cake.

"Oh! The Manneken Pis, isn't it? It is, indeed, quite famous and very cute." Eva replied, enjoying her slice of cake.

"The Belgians can be very humorous sometimes. Take the comics for example. Everyone knows Tintin. But do you know Astérix?" Sven added, still smiling at his guests.

"Sven! You shouldn't behave like a child anymore. I'm sorry, but he can be very childish sometimes. I guess it is due to a French speaking mother." Eva scolded and grinned at her mate fondly.

"You are here for the case, aren't you? Laura told us about the serial killer yesterday night." Sven said, having suddenly gotten serious.

"If you know something..." Gregory asked shyly.

They all jumped at the voice. It was the very first time Gregory had said something other than "thank you", "you're welcome" and "hello".

"Felipe truly is a wonderful man, don't you think so? But he can be very strange sometimes. I recall he has shares in most of the diamonds' trading companies. His behaviour is very... unethical. Not that we don't like him, don't misunderstand us, but his doings are to be suspected." Heleen revealed, sipping in some English tea.

"And why would you think that?" Sherlock asked, leaving his cake mostly untouched.

"Because it can be considered a tradition that politicians and industrials make common decisions. Felipe is just following the current trend. When we were still in the big business, not the occasional selling we would do for long time customers as for now, numerous were the politician that came to us. Of course, we have denied most of them. But sometimes, you know, it could definitely be helpful. Felipe's case is... uncommon. He started as a trader, buying and selling raw diamonds to the local manufactures. Little by little, he managed to build an empire and it wasn't not long ago that he had been made an ambassador. The man is very good at building network. He knows all the rules, and the game is hard to get. His current position doesn't allow him to do business anymore but a man like him would never abandon money for honours." The B Alpha answered.

"You think he can be involved in the case." Lestrade stated in his inspector voice.

"Without doubts. You know, there had been rumours running inside our circle. Some people say his actions involved high placed people in the diamonds industry. Others say he has links with Italian and Russian mafias. Some even say he is a double agent. The man is fascinating. I, myself, don't do rumours. But I assure you: he is involved in dirty diamonds' trades."

"Do you mean diamonds from illegal sources?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. It is getting harder and harder to find exceptional raw diamonds. Felipe always managed to find the best of the best. To counterbalance his findings, he would often present hideous diamonds. Most people are suspicious of his findings. Thus, he is getting fewer and fewer clients. The escort business is getting famous though. So, I guess he will switch diamonds for prostitution, simpler and especially more difficult for the government to control." Heleen explained.

_The woman is still keeping things from us, _Sherlock thought. But he remained silent.

*xXx*

**_Same day_**

**_London_**

She really had to find her friend. Her savings wouldn't allow her a full month stay in one of the most expensive city of the world. She knew he had moved in another house. It had been obvious, the last flat was too far from the city centre and her friend, working for the government, would never bear living outside the city.

She looked at her old notebook. Despite having lost contact for nearly ten years, her friend still managed to send her his new address at her Venetian villa. Perhaps he had wanted her to visit him, even though they had decided otherwise. _True friendship doesn't die,_ she remembered him saying.

She left Oxford Street and ran into the first station she found. The summer rain had quickly turned into an averse and while she had always enjoyed water, — having lived several months in the southern Asia —, she'd rather be too hot and dry than a soaked person. Especially since she had nowhere to go. There, she looked at the map and decided to head toward the famous quarter of Chelsea, more discreet and elegant than the trendy quarter of Kensington. Her friend would never live in a flamboyant place. He was all about discretion, culture, upper-class and poshness. She, on the contrary, was all about travels, unknown places, adventures, meeting people. The only common trait they shared was their love of culture and unique personality. Well, both being from affluent families did help a lot.

Nevertheless, she needed to find him. Then she could finally focus on her mission: the only reason that took her back in the civilised world.

* * *

I manage to post two chapters, one in French, and this one, on the same day. I hope I've succeeded in entertaining you. The story is long and I'm very sorry for those who wanted to read a lot of fluff. Of course, there will be fluff, but later.

So, please keep on reading and many thanks to all my followers... :)

xxx

NB: I do love Belgium, the Netherlands, United Kingdom... In the second part (in French only for the moment), I will take them to New York... So, stay turned! :)

NNB: To my many Australian readers, I'd love to include some scenes in Australia, but I've never been there... It's one of my travel projects with Stockholm... though ^^


	10. Chapter 10

**— Chapter 10 —**

**_Day 11_**

Two victims had been discovered last night, in the middle of the city of Diamonds: Antwerp. A midnight wake up call had informed Sherlock, John, Greg and Anthea, now commonly known as Laura.

Still heavy on sleep, the four protagonists went to visit the crime scene. The warm night and the rain free weather surrounded a busy crowd of policemen and other witnesses and enthusiastic journalists. Everything differed from a British crime scene, but the core essence was still present: never-ending security tapes, barking police officers, curious pedestrians and tourists and blood. So much blood, body parts, discarded clothes and personal belongings. The chaotic and very familiar setting revealed them the link between the murders.

The two Dutch victims had been slaughtered by the same murderer.

Still, some differences were visible. The bodies weren't preserved as a whole but butchered into small parts, at first sight messily discarded on the street. The corpses belonged to two females, C betas as usual, but they were naked. The clothes were familiar though: it was the kind of clothes only young ladies on prowling or prostitutes would ever dare to wear. Yet, they were also extremely expensive. Dolce & Gabbana and Versace if the style were to be trusted.

"The clothes are from the last collection of Dolce & Gabbana and Roberto Cavalli. Wear them if you want to be sexy but try to avoid them if you want to have a serious relationship," stated Anthea while handling a piece of evidence.

She met a Dutch officer and handed him the piece of clothing she had been holding in her gloved hands. The Dutch police was very cooperative. Sherlock suspected Anthea, and his brother to have bribed them into an unavoidable deal.

The A Alpha detective paced around the crime scene, spotting missing clues. The scene was apocalyptic. He managed to draw in a notebook the pattern. The body parts formed the shape of a diamond on the ground, in the middle of which could be recognised the heads of the victims.

The faces had been entirely burned, leaving no chance to an identity retrieval.

Sherlock felt uncomfortable for the first time since the beginning of the case. He looked up, searching for John. The army doctor was helping Lestrade and Anthea retrieving the piece of clothing still on the ground. The A Alpha observed his flatmate while trying to separate the evidence between two bags. One of the girls had been obviously wearing a leopard printed mini dress. As for the second victim, she must have been the kind to prefer showing her cleavage.

Sherlock strolled toward his friends and stopped only at a few inches from John.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" asked John in a raised voice.

"I'm just making sure you put this piece of clothing in the right bag. This fabric belonged to the leopard printed Cavalli mini dress and not to the Dolce & Gabbana shirt," the detective responded pulling the piece of evidence from the Omega's hand. He deeply breathed the strong chocolate scent emanating from a near in heat John. The latter huffed and put a little more distance between them blushing slightly.

"At least, we know about their job," Lestrade stated, catching his friends off guard.

"Escorts obviously," Anthea nodded.

"They are related to the diamonds' industry judging by their jewelries. A young prostitute could never afford a one carat diamond. Only high end escorts would have the opportunity to own a piece of fine jewels. However, the two victims were wearing not only bracelets, but also earrings and necklaces and rings, all topped with the best quality diamonds. Only successful escorts would go parade with such a demonstration of wealth. Moreover, they are so young. I think we got something here," deduced Sherlock.

"The organisation theory has already been established then proven to be plausible yesterday afternoon. The main questions are still unanswered. What about the murders' rhythms, two every two days, the pairings, the open stomachs? Twelve victims so far and we still have nothing more than their job, social background and obvious identities statements," sighed John rubbing his eyes.

"I agree with John here," Anthea said.

"Well, I have my own theory if you don't mind. Since all the victims have been discovered with open stomachs, maybe they had been used as means of transportation by the diamonds' traders. They would reward them with high sums of money and gifts. Their job is the best cover up: high end escorts for rich customers wealthy enough to buy diamonds and greedy enough not to care about the origins of the diamonds, mostly from illegal dealers. What do you think?" Greg dared to suggest, both hands in his pocket. He was standing, triumphant.

"That seems plausible, good deduction Greg," John said pocking the inspector, a broad smile covering his face.

Sherlock felt cast aside with the whole discussion. He opened his mouth, but, strangely, nothing came out. John looked apologetically at him while Lestrade scratched some words on his notebook.

The inspector suddenly dropped the pen and grabbed Sherlock's jacket, pulling him in a dark corner, far from their friends. The A Alpha let him led the way. He had a bad feeling about the gesture but remained silent.

"Well, at least we are trying to get somewhere. Sherlock, I mean it. I know you went through a lot in the previous years, and I'm a lot responsible for the disaster. However, since we started the investigation, you still haven't proven your deductions to be true and excellent yet. You even managed to miss some clues. Tell me, Sherlock, what's going on. Is your brother doing some things we shouldn't be informed of?" asked the inspector in a low voice. He watched the man intently.

"I have no clues about my brother's doings and his plan with Anthea. I don't think this would be related with such important things. The worse he could ever do, is to prevent some politicians or millionaires from getting caught in a scandal." Sherlock answered calmly, avoiding the main topics.

"Listen Sherlock. I really do want to know if we are getting somewhere. At least, give me a direction, something to look at!" Greg raised his arms in desperation and sighed loudly.

"I have my theories."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But what I need are exact facts and real deductions, not some random suppositions made in the car or near the corpses. My superiors are getting more and more stressful. I usually never care about them, but since the medias is involved, everyone in Europe is looking for answers. Twelve victims, twelve! Really Sherlock, I'm begging you. Please, try to work harder, can you? Please." Lestrade looked determined to shake the A Alpha out of his bubble.

"Lestrade, listen. I'm not making unrealistic assumptions here contrary to you and your stupid theory about some diamonds in stomachs..."

"At least I'm trying to find the truth!" Lestrade shouted, cutting the detective short.

Sherlock blinked and looked back at the crime scene.

"You are not trying, you are spitting nonsense and making irrelevant assumptions. I'm working and thinking." Sherlock answered back, raising his voice at the provocation.

"Yeah, you do that! I'm not sure if this is going to work anymore. Poor John, how can he cope with your... lunatic behaviour? We are in the middle of a case! A dreadful, horrible, gore, overexposed case. Everyone is behind my back: the MET, the journalists, your brother's assistant, the politicians, and angry G8 organisers. God, Sherlock!" Greg yelled at his friend, suppressing his calm attitude.

In a bold gesture, he punched Sherlock in the back lightly. The detective turned around to face his assailant and raised an eyebrow in response. He was still calm but provoking an A Alpha had never been a wise decision.

"You are mad Gregory. I suggest you to stop your wife's bitching and let her have the house and a new carpet. Dimmock and Donovan would never get along unless you pull the rank or separate them. The main problem isn't hierarchy, it's the dynamic. Go and tell Donovan, that B Alpha, she has no rights to fight with an A Beta DI, especially if he has proven to be at least less stupid than her. And tell my brother to piss off and stop calling you at crazy hours for information. He won't demote you nor will he send your brother working in Scotland." Sherlock spouted coldly, holding an icing gaze.

Th A Alpha then turned around and flew trough the crime scene. He was furious inwards... and disappointed by his friend's demeanour.

In fact, Sherlock knew he hadn't been as efficient as the usual. But the main reason wasn't a lack of intellect.

The main reason had been John.

_John, John, and always, forever, John. _

*xXx*

The midnight streets in Antwerp were clear of people and cars. It had never being a crazily cheerful city. It was full of workers and business men instead. Actually, it had always been one of these cities where people work and shop, but only the rarest and wealthy people did live in. Unlike in Amsterdam, they would grab some drinks after work before leaving for the suburbs to sleep and live. In the city of sins and prostitution, the young and arty would appear in the night, shouting, laughing, having fun. From this point of view, Amsterdam was much more like London than Antwerp.

Sherlock wandered aimlessly in the dark streets, his head bowed low and his mind reflecting about his fight with Lestrade. The Detective Inspector had been on his nerves for the past few days, and Sherlock's lunatic behaviour only added to the accumulating problems.

The A Alpha stopped in the middle of Leopoldstraat, not far from the Bourla Theatre. The crime scene was only a few steps from the place. As a matter of facts, Antwerp wasn't that large of a city if compared to London or Paris. It held his charm and reputation though.

Sherlock resumed his walk and headed towards Nationalstraat. He stopped again at the crossing with Kammenstraat and stared at the shop windows of the famous Dries Van Noten flagship store. The old building facade had been fully included into the store's concept. One of the Europeans' many talents was their capacity to turn a protected old building into a luxurious shop. Many brands had successfully made the transformation and even stores like Zara, conveyed the same values: Barcelona hosted one of the most incredible Zara store.

Sherlock left the crossing again and walked towards Groenplaats. He spotted some seats.

Comfortably sat in front of the Cathedral, he let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes. Head in his hands, he bent over his knees. He thought about everything.

John was the reason of all his current uncertainties. Sherlock knew he was in love and desperate. He wouldn't and had never tried to suppress his feelings. He loved, and that was fine. Everything would remain fine as long as he could still manage to solve cases and work. So he never thought about his feelings more than necessary. Of course, he had dreams and fantasies about John, his smell, his skin and warm smile. But that would forever remain in his mind.

It wasn't fine anymore. John's scent was becoming stronger and stronger and overwhelming. John's heat was approaching. John was attractive and unbonded. John was available and very much wanted to seduce everyone.

Sherlock was jealous.

And then, Lestrade had said something. John smiled and responded positively. Lestrade even blushed!

So Sherlock lost his ability to talk and hurt at the same time.

He was angry, so angry against everyone and everything. He chose to left the crime scene though. Being an A Alpha, he would never dare to raise his voice or be violent. Otherwise, he would lose his status with the MET. He couldn't afford to be aimless anymore.

_Try to think about the case, the work!_

And the dance last night... had it all been in vain? He never tried to seduce John. Recalling last evening, he just remembered seeing a gorgeous B Omega, his best friend, eager to enjoy the event. He had acted on impulse and invited his flatmate for a dance, a truly memorable and so perfect dance where they swayed together.

_I'm the only one to have these feelings, unfortunately._

In one last desperate attempt to focus on the case again, Sherlock pulled out his mobile phone and scrolled through the emails. Blinking in the dark, he reviewed each details they had seen since the first two murders.

_Everything had been so wrong so far!_


	11. Chapter 11

**— Chapter 11 —**

**Day 12**

"Hey, are you in there?" said John, opening his best friend's door slightly.

"Come in."

John shyly entered the hotel room. Sherlock Holmes stood in the right side of a queen size bed, wide awake and already dressed. He had changed into a pristine tailored silk shirt paired with skinny black jeans and shoes. _The man is gorgeous, _he surprised himself thinking.

"Did you sleep last night?" John asked instead, trying to discard unwanted thoughts about the A Alpha.

"I didn't sleep."

"Well... Erm," the omega really wanted to ask about the previous night after Sherlock's sudden departure from the crime scene.

"Just spill it out, John", his friend said flicking through his phone.

"I just want you to know... I'm sorry about Greg's behaviour and he too was sorry for being quite the..."

"Idiot... Did he employ this exact word?" Sherlock grinned slightly.

"Yeah, of course."

The detective's smile broadened causing John to feel himself smiling again. He walked to the bed and sat on an edge.

"I've made some progress," the detective muttered bent over his phone.

He sat next to John, their knees barely touching. John blushed a little when the strong alpha scent surrounded him. It was strange how an alpha's presence could be so smothering. _Maybe it is due to my upcoming heat._

"We have in fact three murderers and not a solitary one. They acted on purpose, pursuing some ideals or respected orders from higher up. I'm not sure yet as for their motivations. One woman, two men, and one of them is obviously left handed. The first one had been easy to deduce since on the second pair of victims, the blood spilling patterns had been caused by a right handed murderer while on the last one, the murderer is truly left handed."

"And for the woman?"

"Really simple: she left some fabrics from her own clothes. The escorts would never wear a liberty patterned cotton dress for their job, unless it is for some kinks. Moreover, the victims have both being very classical in their attire. Definitely, it's a female's doing."

"Wow! You truly did make some progress here Sherlock. Impressive, as always," John exclaimed while looking up to his best friend.

_So close to him..._ he flustered upon realising the meaning of his words. He quickly turned away and pretended to be very interested by the sheets.

"As for the diamonds, the question is now resolved. They are indeed very convenient for money and funds raising. Travelling and murders cost money, so trading diamonds through the escorts is a very effective way to finance their objectives without being revealed. It is also the best way to hide their tracks. Look at Lestrade's reaction. The idiot truly believed the diamonds to be the core element of the whole case."

"Whereas it is only a convenient way to pay the expenses", continued John, catching on the genius' deductions.

Sherlock smiled even more broadly at the omega's statement.

"Indeed!"

"So, what's the next steps?" asked John.

"We need to leave Antwerp immediately. Let's wake up the idiot. I hope his divorce will soon be pronounced. At this rate, he will become completely useless for us."

"And Anthea?"

"Let her be. I don't want my brother's pawn to check on us. "

"But she has been very helpful, with her translations and network. And I doubt she will be fooled by us. She is as creepy as your brother, Sherlock!"

"Of course she is; otherwise he would never have employed her. Just come!"

Sherlock bounced on his legs and grabbed his luggage while pushing open the main door. John strode to his own room to pack his belongings quickly calling Greg's phone. He spitted their plan to one suddenly wide awake inspector, and the three met in the hallway.

Sherlock hailed a taxi and they climbed inside, rushing against time.

"Two new bodies have been discovered this morning as you are aware, by the look on your face," Sherlock spouted to Greg.

"Yeah, I just read the news on my phone after John's wake up call. It is quite early. Are you sure Anthea isn't coming? Because she is very helpful," said the Inspector rubbing his eyes out of tiredness.

"No, I don't want my brother to keep on spying on us," muttered Sherlock looking at the road.

"And, why are we going to the airport?" asked John.

"We are flying to Paris, I've already booked a flight leaving in exactly fifty minutes. I hope we could arrive on time."

*xXx*

_France, Paris,_

**_Day 12_**

Mycroft Holmes sighed heavily in the cafe facing Opéra Garnier. He had just received the news: Anthea temporarily lost track of his brother and friends.

_Just the beginning of another horrible day!_

He sipped his black coffee, enjoying the dawn and the marvellous croissants. He only rarely indulged himself with pastries but who went to Paris without tasting _croissants_ and _pains au chocolat_?

He pulled out his phone again and scrolled the hundreds unread texts until he found the one that really mattered. It was the text that sent him here at six in the morning.

Two of his agents had been discovered dead, slaughtered by the now infamous Jack The Ripper 2.0. Mycroft had always been convicted there were more than one murderer, but that was Sherlock's job, not his. However, with the last news that brought the number of his murdered agents' to five, Mycroft couldn't afford himself to stay in his comfy office anymore. So he took the first train from London to Paris. Usually, he would catch a flight in the government issued private plane, but he didn't have time for that.

He waited patiently for the much awaited call, and had chosen this peculiar cafe to enjoy Parisian life. In this weekday morning, there were only sights of workers: bankers and employees of some luxurious brands. The quarter of Opéra-Madeleine was famous for hosting many fashion brands' headquarters: Cacharel, Helmut Lang, fine jewelries brands... It was also well-known for the Boulevard Haussmann where could be found the Galeries Lafayette and the Printemps. Surrounded by many other shops and banks, it was one of the many spots where one could see celebrities and journalists. Because the very French newspaper Le Figaro's headquarters was also located in this district.

Like his brother, Mycroft Holmes loved to observe people. Thus, watching workers meddling with enthusiastic tourist was an endearing and stimulating occupation. He could recognise them immediately. The tourists would marvel at the Opera and the other old buildings. On the other hand, the locals would dash and cross the streets and grumble and run. Most of them would pull the infamous Parisian _gueule_, which meant: "I'm not here to entertain the unending crowds of screaming tourists. I'm in a hurry so don't mess up with me, especially if you are not wearing black or marine. Unless you work in the fashion field, then I would look at your bag and shoes. Only true Parisian wouldn't boast Louis Vuitton with flashy pink track pants, preferring Goyard or Celine instead with a knee length marine skirt, so chic."

Mycroft smiled at the familiar view. He had spent so much time in his youth in the city of Victor Hugo. He remembered being in his twenties and catching the last train heading toward Paris, where his best friends would welcome him. He would then spend his days off in the _Quartier Latin_, enjoying _paninis_ and chatting on the front of _Notre Dame de Paris_ or at the _Saint Michel_ fountain. They rarely went to the northern west side of the city, always preferring its casual and cultural side: _Sorbonne, Saint-Michel, Saint Germain des Prés_, the _Luxembourg_... but it was all in the past.

His phone rang.

"Holmes' speaking."

The game was on, again.

*xXx*

_United-Kingdom, London,_

**_Day 12_**

She stopped in front of a gigantic house, probably the last purchase of her long lost and best friend. The man had always been so terribly British and pompous in his tastes. But deep inside, he was a friend with a heart made of gold and childish temperament.

She tried to look inside the vast mansion only to be repelled by the prospect of being caught. If the man still had his job, she would certainly not try to crawl inside. She observed the facade, looking for possible clues about his doings. She wasn't a detective but was intelligent and witty enough to spot any oddities.

And the door step had been an oddity. A man like her friend would never, ever, leave his door step uncleaned. He had been in a hurry then.

This behaviour wasn't normal either since her friend would never be late. _So... in a hurry due to some urgencies. _

Even so, he would never be called out for urgencies, because he employed men to do the job for him. _It is something of utter importance then._Unless it was an international crisis or some terrorists attacks in London, he would never budge. Well, even if it was due to an international crisis, he would still remain the perfect gentleman.

She went over all the last news. Only one caught her attention: the Jack The Ripper 2.0 case. She remembered the man to be quite fond of detective stories and other mysteries, and this one was utterly important. Especially since all the morning news had covered another pair of corpses found in Paris this time.

She still had several hundred pounds in her purse, just enough to cover a trip in Paris and some quality clothes.

Because of her best friend's social status, she would have to make herself a little more presentable. She hoped it wasn't going to cost too much though. She still needed to sleep and eat. She may become a hobo, but she would never become a vampire, not that she would be averse to an easier life.

*xXx*

_Belgium, Antwerp,_

**_Day 12_**

Sherlock ran past the checking counters in the airport. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two... Finally, they reached the counter number twenty-six and waited in the queue.

Greg joined him rapidly followed by a panting John. It was common knowledge that A Alphas and Alphas were more athletic than omegas. But omegas nearly in heat were as useless as the ones in heat. John's current state clearly conveyed his nature and Sherlock felt a rush of protectiveness growing in him at the thoughts. It was his job to look after the omega he loved, particularly since the man was breathing heavily and radiated an immensely strong and seductive chocolate omega scent. The A alpha refrained himself from pulling the omega in a tight hug. He didn't want the other alphas and betas smelling his omega.

Lestrade clearly showed interest. Sherlock growled and bared his teeth before regaining his composure.

"We are on time, it's perfect. And no Anthea," he said, dropping his suitcase.

"Sherlock, I still don't understand how you could pack so many things for a business trip!" John huffed at the sight.

Completely lost in the scent of the glorious army doctor, Sherlock blinked at the voice.

"You never know what can happen, better be prepared," he shrugged instead.

John raised his head, and their eyes met. _His eyes are so blue and warm._

"Sherlock, I..."

"Oh, excuse me!" Lestrade interrupted while picking up his phone.

He covered the microphones and whispered loudly:

"Sorry, it's my soon to be ex-wife again. She will never let me breath, that bitch! I'll be back soon.

The inspector turned back and left the queue quickly, leaving his grip-sack on the ground, at his gaping two friend's feet.

* * *

I'm sorry for the long delay between the last chapter and this one. I have been busy writing the French series.

I'm very thankful for all your support! I know I'm not the best writer here, but I try to make the story interesting and understandable.

Don't hesitate to review! :)

PS: while the English part's characters are running to Paris, they are visiting Hong Kong and Pekin in the second part of my French one. ;)


	12. Chapter 12

— **Chapter 12 —**

_France, Paris,_

**_Day 12_**

The Trocadéro was a famous touristic spot full of visitors, romantic couples and souvenirs' sellers. It surveyed the Eiffel Tour, allowing people to take the magnificent photographs one could buy in various shops.

What people tend to forget was the place's many museums and the proximity of the Palais de Tokyo where contemporary expositions would be organised, attracting an entirely different kind of population. Sherlock represented this kind: skinny black jeans, designer minimalistic dress shirts, a tailored blazer casually hung on his shoulder and his trademark pointy shoes. He blended perfectly in the scenery, a far cry from the usual tourists' attire.

John and Lestrade followed closely, wearing their usual clothes. Nothing about them spoke of their true motives in Paris.

Sherlock turned right into Passy Street, one of the richest streets in Paris. They were walking in the 16th arrondissement, commonly known as one of the poshest part of the city, and one of the most boring one.

The two bodies had been found near La Muette metro station, in front of the Franck & Fils department store.

They decided to take the metro from Trocadéro to La Muette. They hoped the station hadn't been closed down due to the discovery, but, apparently, Parisians never closed down the metro, unless there where some major public works undergoing.

Breathing again, Sherlock surveyed his surrounding and immediately spotted the crime scene, already taped and prepared for further investigation.

"Hello, my name's Pierre de Mondres, and I will be your French translator for the duration of your stay," a young man introduced himself.

_He didn't shake my hand, so obviously not an Alpha. By his scent, I would say he's an omega. Quite surprising for a police officer in France. With the USA, France was the only country in Occident to employ A Alphas and B Alphas massively. A rarity since A Alphas are never liked and well employed,_Sherlock deduced in a second.

"I'm not a member of the investigation team, but the head forensic. I may be young, but I know my job. I hope this investigation will go smoothly," the omega continued.

"Pleased to meet you. I'm DI Lestrade, and this is Sherlock Holmes, a regular consultant on my cases and his colleague and friend, Doctor John Watson."

"The duo in flesh and bones! I'm very appreciative of your works, and I do love your writing. In fact, I volunteered for this position when they told us about your coming to Paris," the young man said loudly, grabbing John's hand and shaking it vividly.

_An omega then, since he lost all composure in front of John. _

"Well, I'm delighted to meet a young B omega all the same. Just call me John, we're both doctors here", John said grinning widely.

*xXx*

The investigation went well and by noon, they had wrapped the bodies and prepared themselves to leave the scene. Until a familiar looking black car pulled out in front of Franck & Fils' main entrance.

"God help me! He's here again!" John heard Sherlock shout in despair.

John Watson watched the man climbing out of the black car before being handled his umbrella. He moved slowly toward them, followed by his BlackBerry glued PA, Anthea, back on the scene.

"Gentlemen", he greeted them flashing out a creepy smile. It was... unsettling.

"Mycroft, what the hell are you doing on my crime scene?" replied Sherlock obviously angered by the sudden arrival of his dear brother.

"This is a national security matter. Of course, I would be here, dear brother".

And there were the usual stares again! John was getting used to the brothers' ritual. At first, they would greet each other. Sherlock would snap at his brother for his intruding whereas Mycroft Holmes would stood still and smile: National Security of course. Then, they would engage in a starring battle, each trying to make the other look away. Finally, Sherlock would pout, and Mycroft would use his umbrella, his PA and his position as the elder to overcome the tension. Sherlock would then terminate the battle by his usual sarcastic comments on Mycroft's diet, gaining in return a roll of his eyes and long, long, deep sight.

That was what John expected. Until something caught the politician's attention.

*xXx*

Mycroft Holmes smiled at his baby brother's reaction to his appearance. Sherlock was truly bothered by him, and it was quite the enticing sight. For Mycroft would rarely indulge in some comical situation. In fact, he had always enjoyed the sight of Sherlock's pout. It reminded him of their childhood, a golden time since both of them hadn't been exposed to the cruel nature of humankind yet.

He then focused his attention on the B omega beside his brother. John Watson, great man and army doctor, was observing him with attention. He greeted the doctor with his, now, famous politician smile and prepared himself for some nasty comments before spotting something in his vision.

Parisian ladies were the complete opposite of British and American ladies. They would let their hair fall, unruly and untamed, never combed in a regular basis. Parisians would either wear ballerinas or high heels. They would never wear platform heels pumps unless it was for some costume parties or vulgar settlings. It was all about being practical, simple: a negligé elegance where make up only helped to cover up damages caused by smoking habits and dark circles. Parisians liked to talk in the streets, smoke, eat salads and bread. They would ask for San Pé and not San Pellegrino. They would never eat in fast foods, preferring to buy three times more expensive and tiny sizing tasty food at Monoprix. They would drink black coffee and for the most adventurous, would have a "Café gourmand": black espresso with small pastries. Parisians loved Starbucks but would never buy Starbucks coffee. Starbucks were for sandwiches, cheese cakes and Frappucino. They would drink coffee at the local shops. Parisians would pull the "Gueule", the unmistakable blank face. Tourists often misunderstood the Parisians. If fact, they didn't hate tourists, they just wanted to be alone in their own world, especially in the metro. Parisians were always busy, running, so, flats only. Parisians dressed up considering the quarter they lived in. 16th Arrondissement's ladies would wear American beauty queen styled hair, perfect make up, and flats or "moccasins". Parisians from the Northern east, meaning the quarter of the Marais, would wear clothes from IRO, Zadig & Voltaire, The Kooples, American Retro, Acne, Comme des Garçons, Comme des Garçons, Comme des Garçons... Vintage shops and their loved ones: a mix of H&M, Promod and other rocking brands. Parisians from the quarters near Opera would mostly work in the fashion industry. So unique style and practicality: flats, black stockings, not-but-so-like-dirty hair, red lipstick and Zara, Mango, H&M clothes, all mixed with The Kooples, Sandro, Maje and Celine. The most luxurious brands weren't Louis Vuitton, Dior, or Chanel. No, it would be Celine, Céline, Céline..., Chloé, Isabelle Marant, Givenchy and Yves Saint Laurent. The others would be for tourists, seeking but never getting French elegance. And finally, the ladies from Saint Germain des Prés would wear not-but-so-like-dirty hair as always, skinny jeans, Jérome Dreyfuss bags, big old coats, flats or small preppy boots and Maje, Sandro, Berenice, again.

The Parisian lady that had attracted Mycroft Holmes attention was a true Parisian. Pouting and pulling the "Gueule", wearing red lipsticks, black Repetto flats, skinny burgundy jeans, a vest from The Kooples, not dirty but oh so dirty like shoulder length jet black hair. A T-shirt, obviously from American Vintage revealing a hint of the favourite Parisian lingerie brand: Princesse Tam Tam. It was all so sexy, so classical and very elegant. Tall, skinny like all Parisian ladies, dark circles, vintage bag. She was so Parisian and so familiar.

He suddenly lost track of space and time and focused all his attention on the person standing not far from the crime scene.

He paid no attention to Sherlock and John's babbling.

All his mind and attention were directed to that shadow. A well-known face, body, unmistakable scent.

_Merry._

*xXx*

John had no clue about what had gotten over Mycroft Holmes. The elder had completely forgotten his brother and the crime scene for something in the crowd. He tried to spot what the hell was making the politician gape.

Mycroft dropped his umbrella and started moving fast, faster, faster, until he was strolling to some unknown silhouette.

And John finally saw that person.

She was a woman, in her thirties. Black unruly hair, crimson lips, mixed origins. The European-Asian was very tall, taller than him even in black classical ballerinas. Burgundy jeans, white T-shirt, a small leather bag. So chic, so different, and not at all British. _Definitely not British._

John watched as the man actually ran past the crime scene. Attracting the attention from both Greg and Pierre de Mondres, he ignored them in favour of the woman now standing in the middle of the crime scene. John and Sherlock strolled toward the woman, John following his very curious flatmate whose mind was now focused on his brother's unique behaviour.

"What the hell!" he heard Sherlock shout.

And John saw. He saw Mycroft slowing down before the woman. He saw her smiling at Mycroft. The latter panted and returned a smile. A smile John swore he had never seen on the politician's face. A true smile, sincere and so filled with emotion and love that it was destabilising.

The woman walked to Holmes, unsure about her decision yet. She stopped in her track again, standing only inches from Mycroft.

Finnaly, Mycroft took her into his arms. He squeezed the woman, nuzzling her neck, squeezing more and more until she was entirely wrapped and lifted from the ground. She returned the hug, before taking the man's face in her hands. They spoke softly before he kissed her forehead.

"Who's that girl?" John heard Greg voicing beside him.

"I have no idea", answered Sherlock whose eyes were glued to the couple.

Someone went past them. It was the PA, Anthea, or Laura, — whatever her name was —. The woman disengaged herself from Mycroft's embrace and went to his PA whose arms were also open. They hugged.

"What the hell just happened?" asked an incredulous Sherlock, still in the after shock at the sight.

"Seems that your brother isn't the Ice Man he pretends to be", answered Lestrade.

"She is French, at least partly," easily deduced Sherlock.

"How do you know that?" asked Lestrade.

"Her hairstyle is typical from Paris. The women there had the strange ability to make their hair look like having being washed years ago without being disgusting. In fact, they just never comb daily and allow them to run free. Her shoes were definitely not British. Londoners tend to wear high heels in an attempt to seduce or impress, or brogues. This woman wears ballerinas because she is used to, they look like running shoes on her. Her t-shirt, white but slightly transparent enough to induce curiosity, a very French habit. And finally, her aura, the way she kissed Mycroft, and the way she spoke. I would even say that she isn't French. Parisian because she had lived here but not a local." Sherlock said.

"Obviously, she isn't French, she is mixed!" exclaimed Lestrade.

"In fact, she is a quarter Italian, three quarter Chinese to tell you the truth. Let me introduce you to Merry, well, Daiyu is her real name. Merry, this is my brother Sherlock, his friend and flatmate John Watson and the person in charge of the current case in UK, DI Gregory Lestrade" said Mycroft Holmes.

Merry smiled to them and, with a heavy Italian-French accent, said:

"Enchanted to meet you!"

"Well, if you would now excuse us..." added the elder Holmes before leaving the crime scene with that woman, Merry, and Anthea.

"How can she bear being named Merry?" commented Sherlock.

"I have no idea" replied a struck Lestrade.

* * *

Introduction of two new characters: the famous "she" and the very French Pierre de Mondres.

In fact, Dai Yu means Black Jade. It's a Chinese name, a compilation of two romantic words. I got the inspiration from the famous Chinese ancient novel _Dream of the Red Chamber_ where the main female protagonist's name is Ling Daiyu. I'm not really fond of this character since she's being too romantic and sad to my liking. But I enjoyed the author's feministic views noticeable in Ling Daiyu's actions (studying, cross dressing...) which are very modern for a Middle Age novel.

Hope to entertain! :)


	13. Chapter 13

**— Chapter 13 —**

_France, Paris,_

**_Day 12_**

_She didn't change at all._ That had been his first thoughts when he first saw the little girl who became a beautiful and sophisticated woman. It was so strange how one could feel when something as unpredictable as the return of one's best friend happened. Mycroft had always imagined their reencounter to be dramatic, full of tears and joy and laughs. But it didn't occur in this way at all. She just stood there, in the middle of a crime scene in the city where they had spent so much time together. He recognised the face at once, never having being able to forget the mixed features of the Asian Italian.

He relished in the happiness that warmed his heart as his best friend turned to him again to take his toast away.

"Hey, that's mine!"

"Sorry," she muffled while eating the piece of toast. They were sitting in a comfy little brasserie at La Motte-Picquet Grenelle. The place was tidy and quiet, devoid of tourists and annoying cars' horns. "I'm enjoying the food... being starving so much for so long!".

Mycroft rolled his eyes and pulled out his mobile phone to check on the last progress of the infuriating case. "Well, at least you can eat as much as you want. You've become as skinny as those horrible models," he added judging the silhouette of his friend.

They talked in mandarin, a language they both mastered remarkably well. When they first met, Merry only spoke a little English. Mycroft had some basic knowledge of Italian and both babbled French like a book. Mandarin Chinese was the only language they both spoke fluently. The other advantage of the language was the scarcity of the Asians in Occident. The reason had been simple: deep misunderstandings between the two continents. Asians never went to Occident and Occidentals weren't allowed on the Eastern continent. It had been these ways for so long that people never thought of otherwise. Unless you were Mycroft Holmes and Merry.

"Aren't you skipping work to watch me eating?" Merry added between too mouthful of her pasta. She grabbed her glass of coke and sipped it soundly.

"No. They are perfectly fine by themselves. And I don't think my brother would approve of my... meddling with his case. Let them do the job."

*xXx*

_France, Paris, _

_36 Quai des Orfèvres_

**_Day 12_**

"Well, this is completely madness, do you hear? Completely mad! How can there be English policemen, and from Scotland Yard? We don't need the English here. We can do the job perfectly well by ourselves and..."

"Sorry, but as much as we understand your reluctance to let us join the investigation, this is an order from both our superiors..." Lestrade managed to spit out despite the size of their interlocutor.

"I don't care about your politicians. This is France, not some of your old colonies..."

"Excuse me, but I'd prefer you to shout at each other elsewhere. Some people are actually working here. And nobody asked you to join the investigation, Dumont. You are here as the leading forensic," intervened a unusually tall man in a dark suit and the exact French version of DI Lestrade. He didn't get the good looks though. "Very pleased to meet you. I'm Alain Deubré and the commissaire on this gruesome affair. Please, come to my office, we will work better there," the man said shaking Lestrade's hand.

_An Alpha then, and by the scent coming out of him and his attitude toward the A Alpha Dumont, he must be a B Alpha, _Sherlock thought, following Alain Deubré.

"Here, please have a seat. I'm very sorry for Dumont's behaviour. The A Alphas here tend to become unbearable during difficult cases. And as you can see, the French like to enrol A Alphas in the military and the police." The commissaire grabbed his armchair and sat behind his desk. He looked, sniffed at John and raised an eyebrow before carrying on his speech. "I hope no one hit on you yet, Mr..."

"John, John Watson. I work with Lestrade and Sherlock by sharing a medical point of view."

"Oh! So you are Dumont's English counterpart, aren't you? Care to offer your services? I'm afraid Dumont won't join us on this affair. And even if he would, I won't allow him. You're... Sorry I may be rude, but if you want to participate, I would have to find a forensic from my own country, if possible not an Alpha."

"Thank you for your... offer. But I think I'd manage. I've been in the military and sent off to a very traditionalist country. I'm an Omega though," replied John blushing slightly at the consideration.

Alain nodded and handed a stack of documents to Lestrade and Sherlock before pulling out his mobile phone. He quickly sent a text.

"Someone will be here soon. Shall we join him? He will be at the crime scene. And I've been rude. This is..."

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I work with Lestrade."

"Oh! The famous detective, nice to meet you. I'd love to have external opinions, but the French government is very obtuse. I don't think they'd appreciate the presence of a civilian."

The man led them out of the old building that was the symbol and headquarter of the French criminal police. Located at the Quai des Orfèvres, the imposing building was built on the banks of the Seine.

They quickly entered the unmarked Peugeot and pulled out in the traffic. The ride to the crime scene didn't take a long time, due to the month of July when most Parisians had left the city for the South.

A young and enthusiastic man greeted them as he ran forward. He was wearing a dark blue suit, baby blue shirt with no tie and moccasins. By the look on his face, he was incredibly impatient to meet the English police.

"Hi! I'm Pierre de Mondres, again if your still remember me. I'm here as the leading forensic and will assist you during the investigation. I may also serve as a translator since Alain's English can be very strange sometimes," the young man introduced himself.

_B Omega, I do understand Alain's move earlier. Pierre de Mondres is a very aristocratic name though, and being an Omega... very unusual for a young man of his background to join the forensics. Just graduated from medical school, in his late twenties, good upbringing, traditional but not traditionalist family since he isn't bonded yet. He is happy to speak English like many French young people. He's eager to show his skills on his first truly important case. A good man judging by his sincere smile._

"I'll assist the investigation as a medical advisor. We'll be working together, I presume." John said, patting the young man's shoulder.

Pierre smiled even more broadly and introduced them to the same crime scene they had seen previously, minus the bodies.

Sherlock immediately whirled around in his usual state of excitement. The same murders, in France. They must have a sponsor, since they don't seem to be rich if you consider the way the corpses have been staged. It wasn't elegant at all, more gristly than romantic. This time, blooded flooded on a less obvious way, and Sherlock immediately recognised the work of the left handed murderer. The two victims hadn't being killed at Frank & Fils but near the Seine.

Sherlock knelt before a puddle of blood and examined the ground. He soon found a valuable piece of evidence and observed the piece of seaweed.

"This thing," he said while grabbing the tiny bit of green plant and holding it in front of everyone, "proves the victims have being killed near the Seine. This specie of seaweed can only be found in the Eastern side of the city, near the Bastille."

He put his find in a transparent bag and handed it to John. Sherlock knelt before the second puddle of blood and proceeded to observe the pattern.

"Definitely the left handed murderer who carried the girl on his back. The left side was the one to touch the ground firstly. And since she was lying on the back, I can only think of this possibility."

"And what else do you have on this man?" asked Lestrade approaching the detective.

"He is young and fit since he carried two bodies of two young and tall girls in a small lapse of time. And I'd say him to be British."

"How do you know about him being British?" asked Alain Deubré this time.

"Nevermind where you come from, all policemen are idiots. Can't you see?"

Lestrade and Alain both denied.

"Well, look at the pattern, the previous observations we've made about the left handed man. He likes his victim to be neatly placed. I mean, he's a perfectionist, thus, obviously not someone from the south of Europe. He is of caucasian origins since no testimonies have been made neither in Amsterdam or other European cities. And he started the first murders in the UK, the place where he lived and grew up before getting more confident and going to other countries. God! Two idiots leading two investigation teams."

"Sherlock!" shouted John blushing fiercely.

Sherlock blinked in surprise and looked up at the investigators again. The French were annoyed, and some were getting frightfully angry.

Lestrade walked toward him and grabbed him toward a corner: "Come on, Sherlock. I don't think they like us anymore know. Just... behave, okay?"

Alain Deubré joined them rapidly. "I'm aware of your reputation, Mr. Holmes, but, my team consists mostly of A Alphas, like yourself. If I were you, I'd be more... discrete. I don't think you'd enjoy being attacked or mocked at here. I do understand our priorities, but I need my men to concentrate on the work. This is why I called for Pierre, by the way. Look, your friend and him are trying to alleviate the atmosphere."

Sherlock turned back to look at Pierre de Mondres and John. The latter was clearly being hit on.

_He's smelling like a cat nearly in heat, of course all the Alphas would be interested, _he thought surprised by the feeling of uneasiness in his throat.

*xXx*

"Thanks for getting me out of there, I don't think I'd survive out there if I stayed!" John panted, bent over his knees as Pierre de Mondres turned on the light of the morgue and pulled out the bodies.

After their return back to 36 Quai des Orfèvres, they had the misfortune to meet Dumont again. With other A Alphas, Sherlock and him started a shouting contest over the efficiency of the British Police. Then, Dumont blurted something about the _best of the best of the British DI_, Lestrade, to be the perfect illustration of the Yard's uselessness since he always went to Sherlock. Lestrade, in a fury, started a real fight with Dumont who didn't hesitate to punch him on the face. Sherlock, who could behave like a true friend sometimes, jumped at the French forensic. Thus, a tremendous fight started. Being in the centre of the whole scene, John avoided an A Alpha who tried to seduce the army doctor by protecting him, only to be pulled away by a seriously angry Sherlock.

"Don't you dare touch him!" the sociopath said before throwing a fist in the Alpha's face. Dumont, exceeded by the gesture toward his colleagues, hit back.

In the end, it was thanks to Pierre and Alain Deubré's intervention that John left the scene. He was pretty sure the fight was still happening out there, but that was strictly between mental Alphas now.

Still, why did Lestrade, usually so composed, lose his temper and fight back?


	14. Chapter 14

— **Chapter 14 —**

_France, Paris,_

_**Day 12**_

_"_I'm so sorry about my colleagues' behaviour. They can be very childish sometimes. And since the _Crim'_ is a macho place full of Alphas as you may have noticed, there are only a few serious Omegas and Betas." Pierre de Mondres apologised to John Watson after having laid the bodies on two tables.

"I'm very much surprised by the facilities here. How did you manage to hide a morgue in the underground of this old building?"

"Well, traffic jams in Paris are a real pain in the ass if you get what I mean. Try to navigate between the _Institut médico-légal de Paris _and here and you lose at least several hours to the traffic. For emergency cases like the one we have now, there is another morgue right here. I do like to work in this place though, it's very calm," the young omega said while pulling up a white sheet on the lower half of the two bodies. "They are so young!" he added looking at the two girls' faces. "I do envy you. You seem to have a nice looking Alpha as a mate. I hope you will soon get bonded."

"Excuse me?" John said, surprised by the last comment.

"Sherlock Holmes, the young and very sexy Alpha. He has excellent tastes in clothing. If I remember correctly, his suit comes from the last Paul Smith collection. You managed to get yourself an A alpha, good for you!"

John must have been pulling a strange face because Pierre added: "Oh! I thought you two were together. The way he looked at you, no, _leered_ at you was quite obvious and I suspect him to be of the possessive ones. At the crime scene, he actually went furious when you were being hit on and moments ago, he threw a fist at an A alpha that only wanted to help you!"

"He did that? I don't recall..."

"Can't you see it? Oh, maybe I'm just getting desperate to find a new Alpha or beta. I don't have your body and sexiness sadly. My colleague, the one who wanted to help you, is a very good friend. I hope he didn't get a black eye as a result."

"I do remember now, Sherlock has indeed shouted something in French to that man. What was it again?" John tried to conceal his face to no avail. He was blushing furiously.

"_Ne le touche pas!_ Which means _Don't you dare touch him_. I must admit your two friends speak French quite well, especially Sherlock. I can even distinguish a little bit of Parisian accent. God, I said Parisian accent, there are no such thing as Parisian accent anymore, more like a Parisian poshness instead. I'm from Normandie, you know? People there aren't presumptuous and arrogant as Parisians."

"I think I've heard some things about Parisians being very infamous in the eyes of the other French."

"That's true, but it doesn't apply to everyone of course. However, they still admire their nonchalance and style of living. Unless you come from the South, where the quality of life is way better."

Pierre hummed a well known melody and meticulously opened the bodies' stomach.

"I'm surprised they are still complete. I mean, I've heard the previous victims to have been slaughtered. Those girls only got dismembered. What do you think of that?" the French omega observed.

John took care of the second body, replicating the same gesture in a more confident and experienced manner. "I'm not sure about this yet. Sherlock should have some leads by now. If he isn't battling anymore, of course," he joked.

The two omegas laughed at the thoughts of many A Alphas fighting over territories. Because two police organisations from two different countries fighting over a crime scene could, indeed, being considered as a territory fight.

John, still blushing at the revelation, smiled fondly at Pierre, a young and good man who would gladly help them through the case.

"Alain Deubré is a nice fellow. If not him, I wouldn't have the opportunity to join the Crim'. I was destined to become a general practitioner, working at my own practice, healing clogged noses and stomach aches. I'm glad to help in an exciting field even if I earn less than my school mates. I heard you were an army doctor. How was your life back then?" Pierre smiled timidly at the English man who immediately mirrored the smile.

Then John told him his story.

_They will definitely become good friends._

*xXx*

_France, Paris,_

_**Day 13**_

Rain pourred down heavily on the pavements of Place de la Concorde. It was still dawn, devoid of living beings apart from a few homeless people and early risers.

Sherlock perambulated at the fountain, waiting for his friends and Deubré's team to arrive at the last crime scene. This time, only one corpse had been discovered in the luxurious Hôtel de Crillon.

The A Alpha walked around the place, observing the pedestrians and the tourists who reached the portal of the Jardin des Tuileries in an attempt to be the first to walk in the park. He turned around to look at the main fountain, and inadvertently listened to some locals' rants and arguments. Workers were mumbling at the weather, the public transports, the tourists and so on. Sherlock was getting used to the French ranting, a famous and sadly, a very true trait. He sighed before pulling out his phone again.

Seven AM and still no sight of the police.

"Hey! Sorry for being late!" a familiar voice called on him in French. Sherlock raised his eyes and looked for the voice only to be greeted by the young and over enthusiastic Pierre de Mondres.

"Bonjour, comment allez-vous?" replied the consulting detective in a grumble.

"Good, thank you. I thought I'd be the last to arrive, but as I can see, I'm the second one. I live nearby, at my parent's main flat. They retired to the South, so basically, I'm living alone. Where are the others?"

_He truly is a chatterbox. Better to be cautious about his youth and inexperience. Don't let him know too much. He may spit some confidential information, that one. God helps us! We are really getting nowhere with the frogs!_

"I believe you were the one who called us for this affair."

"Yeah, they didn't want me to inform Deubré and you but I did it nonetheless. I'm pretty sure this case is related to the Jack The Ripper one. I may be wrong, but you never know..."

"Tell me about the victim".

"I didn't get the chance to read the complete report. The corpse has been found last night by one of the Crillon's many managers who went checking the room's tidiness before the arrival of new guests. The victim, a young girl in her twenties, most likely a student in Paris, French, quite healthy and no trace of drugs or violences apart from the bruises on her neck. Killed by strangulation, no luggage, only a purse. Elegant but not evening attire, only light makeup. Definitely not a prostitute by the look of her frame and her scent: C beta. This is the reason why the other team didn't want us to work on the A Alpha you punched resulting to the enormous fight yesterday was the one to inform me. He works on that case. I told this to Deubré and I believe him to be arguing with his homologue for this affair.I hope we will have it. He will arrive soon, I just received a text from him.**"**

Sherlock remained silent and stilled. So, if the reports were to be trusted, the victim wasn't a prostitute but presented the other characteristics: young, pretty, C beta. Still, she had been strangulated meaning that her body was intact and no destabilising settings had been produced. Finally, she was alone, in a hotel room, not outdoor in the streets.

_I have to check on the body and the crime scene._

At this very moment, John, Lestrade and Deubré's whole team came into view and greeted the two men.

"We managed to win the case over that other dull one!" exclaimed an extremely joyful Alain Deubré. "So, let's go. I heard they've left the crime scene unmoved. I hope they told us the truth. That man works with Dumont... I don't very like him." The B Alpha paced toward the Hotel Crillon and flashed his ID to the receptionist.

They were immediately led to a room on the second floor.

The luxurious room was empty excepted from the sight of the victim and some of her belongings.

"She doesn't seem to be the kind to afford a room at the Crillon," observed John.

"Correct. She didn't pay for the room. It was registered under the name of Paul Hamont," added Sherlock walking around the place. He stopped before the bed on which laid the body. "What do we have on the man?"

"Nothing yet. They are still reviewing the tapes of the security cameras. We have high hopes though," replied Deubré with a strong French accent.

John and Pierre both kneeled at the level of the victim, half falling off the bed. Pierre lifted the skirt of her dress and proceeded to examine her genitals with his gloved hands.

"She's still virgin!" He exclaimed startled by his own discovery.

"Well, that proves at least one point: she isn't a prostitute at all and most certainly won't sell her body for her first time. Judging by the state of her clothes and the books she read, she's more of the serious and romantic type." Sherlock added getting more and more excited on the matter. He clasped his hands and held them under his chin, adopting his usual position.

"I agree with you. She's more of the Sorbonne type of literature student. Too pure and naive to be a prostitute. That doesn't exclude the fact that she could have been romantically involved with the man and wanted to have her first time in a romantic settings. And this suite at the Crillon is perfect." Pierre shared his point of view and looked insistently at Sherlock who stared back.

John cleared his throat.

"We should go and ask the receptionist about the man. He may give us some important details," the army doctor suggested, standing awkwardly between Pierre and Sherlock. He showed his best and cute smile to Sherlock who blushed slightly.

Lestrade didn't wait for the detective to move, already running out of the room, followed by Alain Deubré and his team.

Before going after them, Pierre grinned and winked knowingly at his Omega friend who blushed fiercely and cleared his throat again. Sherlock, oblivious, rapidly caught the others.

John glanced one last time toward the body and sighed. _One more victim, and a very innocent one this time. _He scanned the room rapidly before checking the time on the bedside table's telephone. There, he noticed a tiny sheet of paper folded neatly under the device. He wore his gloves again and pulled the piece of paper meticulously from its hiding place.

_There you go, _he thought while unfolding the piece of paper. He read it rapidly and shouted in a panic.

"Sherlock!"

The others ran back immediately to find a completely flurried John, barely handling a sheet of paper.

Sherlock came to his friend and snatched the paper away from him. The A Alpha grabbed the omega's arms and tried to calm him by looking into his eyes. "I'm here, are you okay?" he whispered. John only managed to nod at his finding.

Sherlock stood up and read the scribbled text. No doubt, the writing was way too familiar. Strangely, the text was written in French. No doubts about the author though.

"_Cher Sherlock Holmes,_

_ Lorsque tu auras trouvé ce message, les nombreuses et malheureuses victimes si joliment présentée à toi te seront déjà bien familières. Prends donc ce message comme mon unique revendication._

_ Pourras-tu résoudre cette énigme? Je n'en doute pas et j'attends de voir tes nouveaux exploits._

_ Bien à toi mon bel Alpha,_

_ Jim Moriarty_

_ PS: Que ce jeu reste entre nous. Holmes Senior a d'autres urgences bien plus importantes."_

He translated the message to John and Lestrade, lowering his voice to avoid being heard by the French.

_"Dear Sherlock Holmes, _

_When you find this message, the numerous and unfortunate victims would be already too familiar in your eyes. Consider this message as my only claim. _

_Can you solve this puzzle? I have faith in you. I can't wait to see your exploits, again._

_Sincerely yours, my beautiful Alpha,_

_Jim Moriarty_

_PS: This game stays between us. Holmes the elder has much more important matters to attend."_

* * *

I've been productive the last days thanks to my French version!

Yeah... I managed to put them together even though the settings are different. Moriarty's message has been discovered in Bruges whereas they are still in Paris in this version. As I've said, the main plot remains the same! :)

Please review and thanks to all the loyal readers and followers for your continual support!


	15. Chapter 15

— **Chapter 15 —**

_France, Paris,_

_**Day 14**_

Locals reckoned the Luxembourg to be one of the few haven which could be found in the city of Paris. Paris was well-known to be a very stressful city. Trying to get into the city midday by car was an impossible task, walking slowly in the tube was either impossible or a suicidal act, even having a walk in the city was complete madness. That explained the sacred existence of some places like the _Luxembourg_, the _Tuileries_ or the _Ile de la Cité_.

Gregory Lestrade pulled out his mobile phone again — ten times through the last hour — and sighed at the screen. It displayed his soon-to-be-ex-wife's name and he really didn't want to talk with her. However, he did want very much to finalise the filing of his divorce. Liberty had a price.

The wife screamed at him for not being in London handling the lawyers and the lack of budget. Gregory listened to her rant, pacing around the park, and rolling his eyes. "I know..." He sat on one of the green iron chairs at disposal. "Yeah, I agree..." He watched a boy trying to catch one of the many ducks. "I'm sorry, I will be there on time..." He sighed again and rubbed his eyes.

*xXx*

It was hot, blazing hot. Sherlock was in his shirtsleeves and not in his best mood. John had gone to buy some drinks and ice creams and he still hadn't returned. The detective pulled a hideous iron green chair in a cool spot beneath the trees, facing the main fountain and Gregory, who was still on the phone with his wife.

_Wait for the phone's bill and he will be even more depressed, especially if the Wife wanted him to pay for the whole family!_

He slouched over the chair and flicked though his mobile phone reading the last forensic report sent by their new friend, Pierre de Mondres. The report had been completely redacted in French but the young omega did an excellent job by summing it up in English.

He had been reading the report over and over again when John finally came back with some drinks and ice creams. He handed one to Sherlock and dragged another green chair next to his best friend.

"So, what do we have?" the blond asked, pulling out the vanilla and chocolate flavoured ice cream.

"Nothing important, we need to go back to the morgue and crime scene later. They did a horrendous job at picking up evidence apart from Pierre de Mondres who seems to be quite reliable. His part of the job was well done... at least better than the others'."

John shrugged and dumped the last piece of paper covering the ice cream cone into a plastic bag.

Sherlock started licking at his own black chocolate ice cream. It was a true relief, the bitter sweet cream melted into his mouth. He hummed satisfyingly at the taste, closing his eyes and enjoyed the hot breeze ruffling his hair.

Sherlock hummed and opened slightly his eyes.

The two men watched the locals and tourists walking by the ancient fountains, comfortably seated surrounded by calmness and centuries old trees.

*xXx*

Gregory Lestrade walked aimlessly around the park still glued to his phone and listening to his wife's undying rant. She wished him to meet their respective lawyers back in London. She wanted him to pay part of her fees. She asked him to let her have the furniture. She demanded him to give up the house.

Gregory finally agreed to her demands. He was utterly disgusted by the wife's behaviour, but she was right on one point: he was a bastard for not having taken care of her. He was an alpha and it had been his duty. He failed.

*xXx*

The minutes passed slowly. People were enjoying the warm weather. It wasn't blazing hot anymore with the shadow cooling the air around them. They were alone under their tree, far from the young locals sitting under the sun in an attempt to get a tan. Reading, chatting softly, listening to music, they were having a nice time before going back to the civilised world.

Sherlock turned to watch the man he deeply cared.

John was licking his ice cream in an endearing fashion. He was meticulously slurping the melted cream with his rosy tongue. Humming, licking, slurping, tilting his head from one side to another...

Sherlock gaped at the sight.

The omega was enjoying the taste and moaned at the pleasure.

_Oh God!_

Oblivious to the effect he had on his best and very A Alpha friend, John carried on his task and licked the whole biscuit making scandalous sounds.

Sherlock moved uncomfortably at the sight and tried to focus on other things than his growing erection.

Well, the man did smell wonderful. Chocolate John eating chocolate flavoured ice cream was way too much to handle. Sherlock inhaled the scent deeply.

_He does have a wonderful tongue._

The omega caught one drop of the melting ice cream on his fingers.

_Please, don't do that._

He did that. John licked then sucked his fingers thoughtfully, making indecent noises all the way. He moaned again.

Sherlock shifted on his chair and tried to look away, desperately. _Useless. _He grabbed his trousers and bite his lower lip. _Control yourself!_

John's mouth, acting on its own, took the entire cone and sucked it. He groaned before pulling it out and licking at the remaining cream on the biscuit. The melted chocolate still dripped out the cone. John tried to catch everything in his mouth. He licked at his fingers one more time before swallowing the remaining cream. He licked clean his mouth.

That was the last straw. Sherlock inadvertently approached him, diving into the wonderful and sweet flagrance of the omega. The A Alpha closed his eyes for an instant and savoured the flavour.

_Chocolate, vanilla, chocolate, dark and sensual chocolate. _

He listened to the obscene sucking sounds produced by the omega and approached more. He opened his eyes once again only to be a few inches away from John's neck. He inhaled deeply.

John stopped moving at the sudden appearance of his friend. He stilled, the ice cream forgotten.

"John..." Sherlock inhaled again and again.

The summer breeze was met with the detective's breath. John shivered at the sensation. He turned to watch the A Alpha.

"John..."

"Sher... Sherlock!" John flushed into a delicious bright red colour.

Sherlock's mouth was only a mere inch from the omega's skin.

John became redder. He unleashed a burst of hormones.

The Alpha inhaled even more. John intinctly uncovered his neck.

Then Sherlock licked him, the wet and hot tongue finally met the warm and flushed skin.

"John" moaned the detective.

John closed his eyes and let it be.

_Definitely dark chocolate and a slight bit of vanilla mixed with cinnamon. God, he tastes gorgeous!_

Sherlock grabbed the omega's right tight and nuzzled his neck. He palmed his own erection and sighed in relief.

John felt the strong Alpha scent and breath covering his scent. He was lost in its calming strength. He reached for Sherlock's hand on his tight.

"Sherlock!" he groaned.

Then everything stopped.

Sherlock suddenly leapt on his feet and stumbled backwards. He stilled, gaped.

"John, I'm... Sorry" and he ran away as fast as he could.

John stayed still on his chair, ice cream dropped on the ground, flustered and shocked by what just happened.

The B omega buried his head in his hands.

He let out a faint cry.


	16. Chapter 16

— **Chapter 16 —**

_France, Paris,_

_**Day 16**_

Mycroft Holmes sat in the armchair in front of the news. He listened carefully to the French speaker describing the last crime scene from a very French point of view. Because of their love for dramatic sceneries, the medias had enhanced the gory and English aspects of the case. Thus, the murderers had been described as English slaughters in the likes of Jack The Ripper, of course, but they also compared them with Gothic English stories main characters.

_Over dramatic and French, as usual._

Mycroft looked around and focused on the main door that opened suddenly.

"Hello, K," he said, still casually seated.

"Sir, I had the confirmation of your dead agents' identities. Here are the reports," replied Anthea handling him a stack of documents.

"Thank you, my dear. Please have a seat. I'm sorry, but it will only be the two of us tonight. Merry, unfortunately, has left to watch some films at Bercy. Would you like some drinks?" he asked flicking over the papers.

"No, thank you. Hopefully, she won't leave the cinema before the end as usual."

"The film is excellent though. She does have great tastes in cultural entertainments."

Anthea nodded before focusing her attention on her BlackBerry again.

Mycroft read through the reports.

Only three of the victims did interest him since they had been working for the British Government and more precisely had been directly related to his units.

The first pair of victims the French police had discovered in Paris consisted in two young C betas in their first international mission. The two women had been trained and educated in the best schools and centres in Great Britain. However, both were French.

The first woman was one of his own pupil. Jane McGowan was English but grew up in France and spoke a perfect French. Nothing apart from her real name would reveal her English origins. The girl had been trained personally by him. She was the kind of woman who could replace easily Anthea one day. Promising, genius, Cambridge, a mathematician. She had wanted to do something for her nation, he recalled her reasons to enter the Government. She could have landed every jobs in the world from banking to research. She possessed great tastes, a very distinguished figure. Everything about her screamed reliability, seriousness, elitism. Her only flaw was her lack of craziness. And this flaw was way too important if she were to become a leader in the future. Capacity and being serious are important traits, indeed. But in the highest spheres of the political world, only personality and guts can truly change ones' mind. Anthea possessed that: she was an incredible seductress, an artist, a dancer on top of being a genius with an eidetic memory. Mycroft had hoped the flaws would be resorbed with time. Jane's first mission in France had being aimed to attain that. Sadly, the young woman died on duty.

Mycroft continued to read through the report until another familiar name caught his attention. A young man, C beta, English, dead in London. He had been one of the first victims. The man had just graduated from Oxford. He was a true diplomate, very intelligent and seductive. He had been recruited by Anthea. The man was on his first mission in London. He could have been made a good spy very quickly and later a good ambassador. Probably better than Felipe himself.

The last victim, a young woman, had been working with Jane. Her name was Melany. She had been a true find. Mycroft undoubtedly saw himself, his brother and even Merry in her. She didn't go to a renowned university. She was still a student when he met her. She was witty, crazy, quick, intelligent, good with words. He affectionately called her an "aspiring Sherlock". She was madly intelligent. So intelligent and crazy and had good looks and an incredible writer. She never enjoyed studying and hated the serious persons. Mycroft remembered their first meeting. She had called him a "posh git": too serious to really live. He had laughed then, so much that he completely astounded her. She could have gone so far. With more experience, she would have being able to make every politician pliant with a single word. She could have prevented wars and crisis with her intelligence and wit. He had loved her. And he paired her with Jane in an attempt to make the two of them work together and maybe, maybe in the future, build a relationship like the one he had once had with William. He had hoped for that to succeed.

Their end was tragic, unfortunately.

However, he spotted some strange clues in Melany's report. He laughed to himself. Until the very end, the young woman had proven herself to be the best. She had completely blown off the record. Definitely way better than Jane. _Yes, she could have had a brilliant career!_

Melany had cut her own right thigh. The message had been clear: find the murderer, it's a woman, a female B alpha. _She had incredible memory!_ In fact, the first time that Mycroft had introduced Melany to Anthea had been quite memorable. Melany had sworn to mutilate herself if this gesture would convince Anthea to date her. Anthea, of course, hadn't being very comprehensive. She tackled her with one of her many karate kicks.

"They were unlucky, really," he sighed.

"They would be still alive if we haven't sent them on these cases," Anthea retorted.

"Indeed. I'm quite surprised at the occurrence of the murders. How did they manage to kill people on this rhythm in different countries? Of course there were several of them. It is obvious since I can easily distinguish at least a left handed, a right handed perpetrator and even a female B alpha. Yet, I'm dubious about the state of their finance. Do they have a sponsor?"

"Sherlock Holmes had made the exact same observation. Shall I share my point of view? Mycroft let her continue. In fact, the diamond industry and Felipe McOwen are involved in the case. I'm not sure about their exact motives yet, but if Moriarty is really implicated, I do fear for the worst to come," carried on Anthea.

"You know very well about all of this. The question is: do we have to make a move?"

Anthea revealed her answer in the most obvious and secret way they shared.

*xXx*

Gregory Lestrade contemplated his current state of despair. He was now a divorced man. The feeling wasn't as unpleasant as he first had suspected. He had wanted this moment to come for a time so long that he actually had no joy whatsoever about the whole matter. He was divorced, that was a fact. _So what?_

He had been alone all the way along. Naturally, the good natured Doctor Watson had tried to make him talk with no use. Gregory was a very discreet man, especially on personal matters. Moreover, alphas rarely got divorced even when they had been married to a beta. Thereby, Gregory couldn't help but think himself inferior to the other alphas. Despite the secrecy surrounding his true dynamic, his ex-wife knew him to be at least a B alpha. She had been so proud about this fact: catching an alpha when one's a beta is rare, and widely considered as an achievement, but for the betas only. It was a common fact that alphas would always prefer omegas to alphas: basic biology. But in the case of Greg, the role had being completely reversed. He, an alpha, had being left by his wife, a beta. Normally, alphas would leave their beta partner once an omega close to heat or just too available was in sight. One more reason to be depressed. He failed as a husband and alpha.

Lestrade sat on the edge of the hotel's bed and looked through the window. He couldn't help himself feeling sad observing all the romantic passing couples.

He had met his ex-wife ten years ago, when he was still a young detective constable working at the robbery and minor offences' department. She had come to make a statement about a robbery. She had been smiling and crying at the same time. She broke his heart, in both ways.

One week later, he had called her and used the excuse of the robbery to invite her to dinner. Two months later, they tumbled on the bed kissing, hugging and moaning. A year after, he asked her to marry him and she kissed him like never. She had cried, had jumped into his arms, and had sworn to love him forever. Two years later, he met Sherlock Holmes, a young and genius drug addict. Three years later, he watched Sherlock talking and showing off to a very ordinary man without loosing his patience. John Watson quickly became one of his best friends. A year later, Greg slept alone for the first time, on the sofa, destroyed by the so-called death of the consulting detective. Two years later, he had been spending all his evening reminiscing about Sherlock with John.

Last year, his wife left him when he finally had learnt the truth about Sherlock's death, still in shock. He had never heard her confidence. He didn't understand the importance of this last sentence:

_"Greg, I met another man. He's a beta, like me. And I love him."_

He never took notice of the warning signs. Sherlock, and even John, had informed him of his ex-wife's strange behaviour. Bad ironing, eyes averted, no talks, too many gifts to be normal. All those details didn't make the inspector suspicious. He thought, he believed her to be in love with him, forever.

A month later, she sent him the divorce papers.

Now, in France, Paris, alone, in the middle of the worst case of his carreer, he was officially and definitely a divorced man. Free, but divorced.

Gregory Lestrade picked the envelope again. He was deeply annoyed by the strange package that had been thoughtfully sent in his hotel room. The package contained the signed divorce papers, some old documents from his lawyer and his now ex-wife's wedding ring. That had been normal, excepted.

What surprised him was the three passports put along the papers. Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Gregory Lestrade became different men. The photographs showed their face, but the names and all the other personal facts were wrong.

Gregory searched for other clues in the envelope again. Only a high standing stationary was added to the list.

_"Dear Detective Inspector,_

_Please find joined your official divorce papers and three passport for your personal use. Don't hesitate to use them as backups. I'm sure you will find them useful soon._

_MH"_

Mycroft Holmes had stroke again.

_Something bad is going to happen soon._

He had no clue as for what awaited him. But his first and mort important thoughts went to John.

John, John and John again. _Why?_

*xXx*

"I'm sorry for everything," Anthea finally said after several hours spent in various video conferences and calls.

"You don't have to be," replied Mycroft calmly.

"I'm still sorry, It was my fault."

"Your possessive behaviour only played a small part in the matter. She holds absolutely no grudges against you anymore."

"Still. I'm the one at fault..."

"We all were. And Merry is the one to blame for she was being too reckless."

Mycroft observed the deep blue eyes looking at him, judging and apologising eyes, so deep and profound. And yet, so passionate. _She still loves her. Nothing has changed. All those years and relationships. And still, one look at her and all her deepest buried feelings emerged on the surface again. What have we been doing till tonight? Was it all for vain? I'm sorry, Will. It seems that everything is going crazy again._

Anthea looked away before focusing her attention on a new text messages.

_What would you do, Will?_

* * *

__Sorry for the delay, but I needed to make a mid-story point. It took me several days to build up the last part of the story and choose what to keep and what to change from the French version without deteriorating the heart of the story. It has been a time consuming task.

Thanks for your support and keep reviewing! :)


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